Parker and Holmes
by Kasey of Gallifrey
Summary: John's cousin moves into 221C and Sherlock casts her off as just another idiot, not important enough to warrant his attention. But as murder, intrigue, and adventure bring them closer together, he realizes he might have judged her too quickly. R&R please!
1. Chapter 1

**Not a very strong start, I'll admit. It will get better though; I promise. Anyway, remember to review and let me know how you like this first chapter!**

_Bored, bored, bored, bored_. The mantra repeated itself over and over again in Sherlock's mind. The criminal population of London had evidently gone on holiday, leaving him with absolutely _nothing _to do. It had been nearly a week since his last case, and Sherlock could feel the tedium slowly crushing him.

He threw himself down on the sofa with an exaggerated _huff_, though he wasn't entirely sure that John was there to witness his penchant for the dramatic. _Well, this is dull_, Sherlock thought. It was no use for him to use such histrionic means to prove his boredom if John wasn't at least present as an audience.

Too lazy to actually get up, too depressed by the post-case monotony to move, Sherlock stayed in that position, lying on his stomach with his face pressed into the cushions. He was so bored that he even indulged the possibility of taking a nap, and soon enough, he felt his eyelids grow heavy as sleep became more and more tempting.

Before he could succumb to sleep, however, John's footsteps could be heard on the stairs leading up to their flat's door. Sherlock remained where he was, not even bothering to look up as his flat-mate entered their lodgings.

"Sherlock, are you asleep?" John asked softly when he saw his friend's figure draped across the sofa.

"Obviously not," Sherlock drawled.

John walked into the kitchen, and Sherlock could hear him taking out two mugs and preparing to make tea. When John returned to the living room a few minutes later, two steaming mugs in hand, Sherlock finally pushed himself into a sitting position. He accepted his cuppa from John and sipped it gingerly.

John sat in his usual armchair and pulled out the novel he had been attempting to finish. Sherlock, of course, already knew the ending of that particular book, but he had been prohibited from spoiling it.

A few minutes passed in silence. Eventually, Sherlock finished his tea and his overwhelming boredom took over once more. "_John_," he whined. "I'm _bored_."

"Lestrade sent you over some cold cases a few days ago," John replied, not lifting his eyes from his book. "Take a look at those."

"Solved them," Sherlock grumbled unpleasantly. "They were all rather simple."

"Why don't you go work on your experiment? You should finish whatever you're doing with that pig's stomach so we can get it out of the fridge."

"I finished that experiment nine days ago."

John looked over at Sherlock with a puzzled expression on his face. "Then why haven't you thrown it out yet?"

Sherlock looked supremely disinterested in this conversation. "I wanted to see how long it would take for you to throw it away yourself."

John rolled his eyes. Typical. "Well, then I guess you could just go out and deduce people for fun."

"Would you come with me?"

"Nope."

"It's no fun if there's not someone to stand around looking impressed." Sherlock pouted and pulled his knees up to his chest.

John chuckled. Despite Sherlock's overwhelming intelligence, he could be such a child sometimes. "Well, if you're _really _bored, you could always do the shopping."

Sherlock snorted. "Really, John? You've got to be kidding."

John sighed. "It was worth a try." He put down his novel, resigning himself to the fact that, until Sherlock found other suitable entertainment, he would have to be at his flat-mate's disposal. Otherwise, Sherlock would end up shooting the walls again.

Sherlock turned his full attention to John, who was stubbornly matching his stare. The consulting detective employed his deductive skills and analyzed on the miniscule details and hidden clues on John's person. "You've got a date tonight with Mary," Sherlock said finally. "You shaved this morning, and you only ever do that when you have a date. Besides, you're wearing that jumper she bought you for your birthday. You've also put on your nicer trousers and your more expensive shoes. But Mary's been with you long enough to not care about what you dress in, and it's not like you're taking her anywhere particularly fancy this evening, so my guess is that you're trying to impress someone else. There's an extra mug set out on the counter—not yours or mine or Mary's—which means that this mystery person is coming to the flat. I'm assuming that this guest is a woman, based on the mug's rather alarming shade of pink. You'd never give a man tea in something that color. So, a woman is coming round today, and you wouldn't be trying to impress her so much if you'd ever met her before—you tend to stop caring what people think of you after your first meeting with them. Who is she then? Not someone from work…not some random date (you're too loyal to Mary for that sort of thing)…who is it?" He paused for a moment, squinting as he added, "John, is someone moving into 221C? She could definitely be a new neighbor. That would fit…"

John huffed out a laugh. "First of all, that's brilliant, as always. Secondly, have you not listened to a word I've said over the past month?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Evidently not…what's going on then?"

John sighed in an exasperated manner. "Seriously, Sherlock? I've been talking about it for awhile now, and you _still _neglected to listen. That's really unfair, you know. You expect me to hear every word you say—_even if I'm not bloody home when you say it—_and yet when I talk for a straight month about something, you can't be bothered to listen."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Problem?"

John reminded himself who he was dealing with. _I really shouldn't have expected things to go any differently_, he thought. "No, no problem at all," he replied, his voice a mixture of barely restrained sarcasm and tired acquiescence. "Anyway, in answer to your question earlier, yes, someone _is _moving into 221C." He paused before adding, "Which you would already know if you cared to listen when I tell you things. Just saying."

Sherlock scoffed. How could John have expected him to listen to every little thing he said? Really, Sherlock had been so distracted earlier in the month with a rather interesting case which John had called "The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet." After that, Sherlock had been so wrapped up in his own helpless boredom that he really couldn't be bothered to pay attention when John spoke.

"Well, listen, Sherlock," John began. "She's—"

Sherlock held up his hand to signal his friend to stop talking. "No, don't tell me. It'll be more fun if I can deduce her." He smiled, his eyes twinkling. Deducing new people was always interesting, and he was not going to allow this opportunity to pass him by.

John looked a bit hesitant to allow this. Sherlock could be…_blunt_, especially when deductions were involved, and John didn't want this new neighbor—someone he did, in fact, know very well—to be put off by the consulting detective's rudeness. "Just be gentle," John cautioned.

Sherlock, however, wasn't paying any attention. "She'll be here within the hour, am I right?"

"Yes, how did you—"

Sherlock waved a hand to dismiss the question. "Elementary." He looked down at himself. He was wearing the same dressing gown and pyjama bottoms he'd been in for the past several days. "I should probably change into something more appropriate." There was no way he could "greet" a new neighbor in such clothes. He always tried to look sharp whenever he was in the company of others, though John and Mycroft were clearly exceptions to this.

John eyed him warily. "I'm a little worried about how excited you are over this."

"Of course I'm excited," he shot back. "This is the most interesting thing that's happened in awhile, and with the criminal classes suddenly taking a holiday, I've got to find enjoyment in whatever little things I can."


	2. Chapter 2

Cassandra Parker arrived at her new home on Baker Street a tad bit later than she'd intended. As she walked through the main door, the elderly landlady came out of her own flat to greet the newest tenant.

"Oh, hello, Cassandra, dear," Mrs. Hudson greeted pleasantly. "It's so nice that you've decided to move into 221C. It's really a lovely flat, but people don't seem to take to it as much."

"Well, I think it's perfect," Cassandra replied with a smile. Honestly, it was a very decent flat. There were no outstanding issues, and it had all the necessities. Plus, because there was such a low demand for it, 221C came at an exceptionally cheap price.

Mrs. Hudson assured her that all of her belongings had been moved in as scheduled earlier that morning. Cassandra herself was supposed to arrive at about the same time as the rest of her stuff, but her flight had been delayed for several hours. She was originally from America, and she had never actually been to the flat before that point, but John had sent her lots of photos of 221C and had convinced her that she would be immensely pleased with life at Baker Street. He had set everything up and had facilitated her big move.

Mrs. Hudson patted her arm and said, "So, Cassandra—"

"Please, call me Andy," she interrupted.

The landlady smiled. "Of course. Andy, I'm sure you'll be wanting to see John soon. He's told me that you two are quite close."

Andy grinned fondly. "He's been like a brother to me. It's unfortunate that we've lived so far away from each other."

Mrs. Hudson nodded sympathetically. "That's lovely, dear. Now, I just want to warn you before you go up there…John's flat-mate is very…_odd_. I love that boy as if he were my own son, but he's definitely a strange one. Just give him a chance, and I'm sure you'll warm up to him soon enough."

Andy tilted her head to the side in a show of curiosity. John had been particularly cryptic about his flat-mate, the infamous Sherlock Holmes. She had read John's blog and had even explored Sherlock's website, and the man seemed quite fantastic from what she'd seen so far. But Mrs. Hudson's warning and John's own secretive attitude had her wondering if perhaps there was a darker side to Holmes than she'd come to believe.

"I'll keep that in mind," she murmured to the landlady, now intensely interested. "Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson led her upstairs to 221B. She knocked on the door and called, "Yoo-hoo!" before walking in.

The scene that greeted them was oddly domestic. The flat itself was in total disarray, but the two flat-mates seemed quite at peace. John was sitting in an armchair, typing away on his laptop. Meanwhile, someone who Andy assumed could only be Sherlock Holmes was draped languidly across the couch, eyes closed and fingers steepled below his chin.

Both men immediately turned to face the newcomers when they entered. Sherlock's eyes scanned their neighbor's frame. She was about his age and had reddish blonde hair. Her eyes were a rather pleasant shade of green and her skin was very pale. She was short—shorter than John, which was impressive in and of itself. Her gaze lingered on Sherlock for a brief moment before she turned to the ex-army doctor.

A large grin broke out across John's face, and he jumped up from his seat. "Andy! Oh, it's great to finally see you in person again. What's it been, two years?"

Andy smiled back. "Two and a half. I last saw you at Grandmother Bertie's funeral."

John nodded, trying to look solemn at the somber topic, but he was unable to fully suppress his delight at having her there. "Yeah, that was dreadful business."

Andy shrugged. "Well, she was sort of a dreadful person to begin with."

John rolled his eyes and pulled her into a hug. "It's great to see you." He kissed the top of her head and she wrinkled her nose. "How do you like London so far?"

"It's different that what I remember, but I think it's fantastic. It's going to be great to finally _live _here."

"How's your dad handling all this? From what I remember, Uncle Derek has never been very…_comfortable _with you doing stuff on your own. He's a protective one, he is."

Andy sighed. "He was kind of upset at first. I think he thought that my moving here was some sort of betrayal to him. Dad's always been a bit difficult like that. But he sort of accepted it eventually, and I think he's okay with it all now."

"How's he doing? It must be tough for him to live alone now."

Andy shrugged. "I suppose, but I'm sure he'll get used to it."

Sherlock chose that moment to intervene. As touching as their little reunion was, he was eager to share his deductions with the group. It had been far too long since he'd had the chance to do something like this. He cleared his throat softly, alerting them to his presence.

John's head snapped over in his direction. "Oh, right, well, Sherlock, this is my—" Sherlock's glare cut him off. _Right_, John reminded himself. _I'm not supposed to reveal my relationship to her_. "Sherlock, this Cassandra Parker, our new neighbor. Andy, this is Sherlock Holmes."

Andy smiled politely and extended her hand. She was a bit unnerved by the intensity with which Sherlock was staring at her, but she assured herself that this must be his normal behavior. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Sherlock shook her hand and flashed his I'm-only-doing-this-because-I'm-socially-obligated smile. "Quite."

Sherlock glanced back over at John, almost as if asking for permission. John rolled his eyes and whispered to Andy, "Try not to freak out." He ignored her confused look in favor of saying, "Have at it, Sherlock. But remember: don't be an arse."

Sherlock grinned excitedly. "You prefer to go by Andy and you rather loathe the nickname Cassie. You're a writer—crime stories. We've got a few of your books here, in fact." He gestured vaguely toward the bookshelf. "I've never read any of them, but I'm assuming their rather good. Successful, too, I'd bet. You've made quite a bit of money off your books, but you don't like to spend it. Not because you've got some higher purpose for what the money you've made, but simply because you don't really care for material possessions. You dislike writing by hand; you prefer to type. You get along decently with others, but you're not exactly a social butterfly. You moved to London because you got bored of the people in America—or maybe just of America in general. You decided to move here after John told you about the fair price of 221C. He's your cousin, isn't he? You've grown up in America, however, and you two have only really seen each other at family functions, for which you came to England. Still, you've kept in touch and are quite close."

Andy furrowed her brow and glanced at her cousin. "You told him all this stuff about me?"

John shook his head. "Nope, he's figured it out. That's what he does."

"Right, of course." She had certainly read about Sherlock's amazing ability through John's blog, but it was quite different experiencing it firsthand. She had to admit, he was spot on with everything he'd said. "That's impressive."

"I'm not done," Sherlock replied with a smirk. "You lived with your dad back in America, and I assume you two had a house somewhere on the west coast. He's demanding and protective and slightly neurotic when it comes to things involving you, but you've learned to accept that because the man's practically raised you. Your fascination with the macabre upsets your dad, and that might be one of the reasons you chose to move here—he wasn't supportive of your career writing about murders. You've got a tense relationship with him, but you care for him all the same. You feel bad for him, and I'm assuming you've pitied him since your mother died. That must have happened when you were quite young, and your father's raised you ever since."

John glared at Sherlock. When talking about a parent's death, it was usually best not to do it in such an offhand and aloof fashion, but, of course, Sherlock couldn't be bothered to act civil or gentle as John had asked.

"How the hell did you know all of that?" Andy asked, her voice sounding somewhat disbelieving.

"Well, I know you're a writer because we have your books. John bought them, probably out of some sense of familial obligation, but he ended up reading every single one, which he wouldn't have done unless they were somewhat decent. John greeted you too warmly for just a family friend, and he referred to your father as 'Uncle Derek,' which means you're a cousin. You two have obviously been in touch because you've clearly just arrived in London, so it must've been John who told you about the flat and who set this all up. He wouldn't have done so if you didn't get on well, so it's evident that you're very close."

Andy nodded, doing her best to keep up with his reasoning. "Okay, but you said I don't like the nickname Cassie. How'd you know? And what about all that stuff about writing versus typing and how I don't spend a lot of money?"

Sherlock smiled. "Well, you go by Andy. That's not exactly the most common nickname for Cassandra. It was a bit of a guess, to be honest, but I assumed that your preference for Andy over the more common name Cassie meant that you didn't like the latter. Your hands aren't calloused as one might expect from someone who writes a lot. That points to a partiality toward typing. Your clothes are _far _from being designer, and those shoes are old and well-used. You could easily buy a nicer outfit, and you could probably find much nicer accommodations than 221C, but you haven't done either of those, which means that you're fond of saving your money. Your accent and the fact that you seem to be freezing right now suggest that you're used to the warmer climate found on the west coast, but you're pale for someone who lives in such a sunny place, and that suggests that you don't get out much. You seemed perfectly pleasant when you walked in, so it's probably not that you don't have many options for social interaction but rather than you have no fondness for it. You'd rather stay in and write."

Andy smiled. "Brilliant," she said. "And how did you know about my parents?"

"I knew your mother died because when John asked earlier how your dad was taking it, he made no mention of her. He went on to ask if your father was going to be okay living all alone, which suggests again that your mother is no longer around. It also implies that you had previously been living with him. A parent living with a child, especially when that child is quite grown up, always leads to some sort of tension in the relationship. You spoke about him in an exasperated manner, as if you were used to his strange parenting methods; hence, he's tiring to be with, but you care for him anyway."

Andy stared at Sherlock for a moment. There were some aspects that he hadn't quite explained, but she was unwilling to ask him to elaborate on his methods lest he think her an even bigger idiot. Instead, she mumbled, "Incredible."

Sherlock shot a pleased, slightly smug grin in John's direction. _Look at that, _he thought. _And John thought I would end up upsetting her. That's not the case. She thinks I'm incredible_. Compliments in Sherlock's line of work were few and far between, and John was really the only one who had bothered to praise him for his abilities. It was nice to have yet another person to admit they were impressed.

Andy seemed to realize that she had been openly gaping at Sherlock for far longer than was socially acceptable. She cleared her throat and looked away. "Right, well, I guess I'd better start unpacking my things."

"I'll help you," John said. When Sherlock failed to make a similar offer—which would be the polite thing to do—John glanced expectantly in his direction. "_Sherlock_," he hinted.

The consulting detective was well aware of what John was expecting him to do, but he had no desire to help Andy unpack. That would be tedious. "I'll stay here. You two must have a lot of catching up to do."

John was about to inform him that, no, they did _not _have catching up to do as they had been in contact for quite some time. Andy put her hand on John's shoulder and shook her head. "It's okay," she said, and led him down to her flat.

When the two cousins had left, Mrs. Hudson turned to Sherlock. "That was nice of you," she commented.

"What?" he replied absently, lying back down on the sofa.

"You didn't make her cry, for one thing. You didn't expose all of her dark secrets right away, which is always good."

"That's because, from what I saw, she doesn't exactly _have _any dark secrets."

Mrs. Hudson looked at him with what might have been described as a knowing expression. "Everyone has dark secrets, dear. Some people are just better at hiding theirs."

* * *

**I would really appreciate it if you would review and let me know what you think so far!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Eh, not to sure about this chapter. I wrote it during AP Chem, which is not the most conducive time to be writing. Learning electrochemistry does not stimulate creativity. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. As always, I would appreciate any and all comments you have about this chapter!**

Two weeks after Andy moved in, Sherlock was called in to assist on a rather nasty case. Someone had been robbing and killing couples in alleyways behind upscale restaurants. The Yarders were convinced that the motive for these slayings was nothing more than robbery, but Sherlock knew otherwise. He had been attempting to work out the real motive and to identify the murderer, but the case had seemingly reached a dead end. So far, three unsuspecting couples had been murdered and there were no signs to indicate that the killer would stop anytime soon.

Lestrade stopped by one afternoon to check on Sherlock's progress. "Found anything yet?"

Sherlock was perched in his armchair, crouching on it rather than actually sitting, and staring at the crime scene photos he had spread across the floor. He mumbled something unintelligible, not looking up.

"We're still working the robbery angle," the detective inspector informed him after a moment. "If the killer tries to use any of the cards he stole from the victims, we'll know. Until that happens, we really don't have much to go on."

Sherlock, eyes still fixed on the photographs, muttered, "He won't use their cards. This wasn't a robbery."

"Of course it was," Lestrade replied as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Why else would our guy take the wallets of all the victims?"

"I don't know," Sherlock snapped. His eyes darted up and settled in a disgruntled glare on the DI. "But look at this; it'll prove that robbery had nothing to do with it." He picked one of the photos up off the floor and shoved it in Lestrade's direction.

Lestrade glanced down at the picture and noted that it was a snapshot of a cufflink found at the scene of the first murders. "The cufflink—what about it?"

"That cufflink is _expensive_," Sherlock explained, hopping out of the chair. He began to pace across the room, waving his arms about frantically. "It didn't belong to either of the victims, so it must've been the killer's."

"Well, couldn't it have been there _before _the murders happened?" Lestrade suggested. "There's a ton of junk scattered around those alleyways. Who's to say that this wasn't just another piece of trash left there?" He was unwilling to let this go very far. If the motive was robbery and nothing else, they would only be tracking down some stealing thug. If there was a more sinister incentive behind the crimes, that allowed for the possibility that these murders were committed by a dangerous and clever psychopath. It was easier to chase thugs than psychos, so Lestrade desperately wanted Sherlock to be wrong on this front.

Sherlock scoffed at the suggestion. "That's ridiculous. The cufflink was found _on top _of the pool of blood, which means it was dropped there after the fact. It definitely belongs to the murderer. And with a cufflink _that _expensive, why would he need to resort to killing for money? He wouldn't. A man willing to indulge in _those _cufflinks wouldn't need to rob people." Lestrade opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock promptly cut him off. "And why are they always murdered _couples_? Someone who was merely a thief would surely kill single people as well as couples, but a _serial killer_, on the other hand—well, if it's a serial killer, that definitely explains why they're always murdered in pairs. So, you're looking for a wealthy psychopath who has something against couples in love."

Lestrade finally conceded to Sherlock's point, and he announced—rather grudgingly—that he would have his team stop focusing on the robbery angle. After that, Sherlock muttered something about needing to go to his "mind palace," and he swiftly ushered the detective inspector out the door.

When John returned to the flat after a long day at work, he found his flatmate sprawled across the sofa in his Thinking Pose, fingers steepled and eyes closed.

"Is this about the case?" John asked as he hung his jacket on the coat rack.

"Hmm," Sherlock murmured by way of reply.

John recognized that his friend was in his "thinking mood," which indicated that the great detective would most likely cease all interaction with the outside world for quite some time. When Sherlock had claimed that he occasionally didn't talk for days on end, he had been exaggerating, though not by much. The longest period that the detective had remained in this meditative, thoughtful trance had been for twenty-two hours straight.

Rather than vainly attempting to engage Sherlock in further conversation, John headed up to his room. When he came out about two hours later, he was freshly showered, clean-shaven, and ready to leave. He glanced over at Sherlock, who hadn't moved a muscle during the whole time that John had been home.

"Well," John announced loudly, hoping to break through Sherlock's thick trance. "I'm off out. I've got a date tonight with Mary, and I'll probably be home late."

There was no response.

John sighed. He thought about the last time Sherlock had been in one of his "thinking moods." John had mistakenly left him alone for an hour, assuming that his flatmate would be immobile for the time it took to get the shopping. Apparently, during those sixty short minutes, Sherlock had snapped out of his daze, solved the case, and—upon discovering that John was not around—had idiotically pursued the killer himself.

John shuddered at the memory. _What if he tries something like that again?_ the doctor thought.

"Sherlock," he said slowly. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm out."

Again, the man did not reply.

"Sod this," John mumbled. He snatched his jacket and walked out of the flat. If he left now, he would still be on time for his date with Mary. He paused as he reached walked down those seventeen steps.

_What if he gets himself seriously hurt this time? _he asked himself nervously.

John huffed out a frustrated breath. Then, a sudden idea struck him, and he descended down the steps that led to Andy's flat. He knocked on her door hurriedly, hoping to get this over with quickly. He really didn't want to make Mary wait too long.

"Hey, John," Andy greeted pleasantly upon opening her door. "What's the matter? You look sort of anxious."

In a rush, John explained the entire situation, doing his best to convey the importance of this matter to him. He concluded with, "I really just want to make sure that Sherlock doesn't get himself into trouble again. Will you help?"

Andy raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk playing at her lips. "You want me to babysit your flatmate while you go on your date?"

"Pretty much, yes," John replied. "If it helps, I know you've been trying to find inspiration for your next book, and I've got a massive stack of case files upstairs. You can look through them and see if anything strikes you as interesting."

Andy's eyes lit up. She had found a new agent since moving to London, a professional and slightly quirky woman named Rebecca Townsend, and Townsend had been pressuring her ever since to get to work on her next novel. Coming up with new and creative crime stories was much more difficult that it used to be, so the prospect of getting to look through those case files was extremely enticing.

"Okay, I'll do it," she said with a grin.

"You're my hero," John responded, pecking her on the cheek. "You really are." He turned to leave before spinning on his heel and adding, "Oh, and if Sherlock snaps out of his mood before I get back, make sure he gets some food. He hasn't eaten a proper meal since Wednesday."

Andy looked slightly horrified. "But it's Saturday."

"Exactly."

With that, John departed for his date with Mary, and Andy grabbed her laptop and headed to the flat upstairs. The door was unlocked, which was helpful as John hadn't left a key, and she walked in. She half-expected Sherlock to glance up upon hearing her enter, but the man remained completely motionless. She sat herself down in what she had come to recognize as John's armchair and looked down. To the right of the chair, a towering and precarious stack of case files was threatening to tip over. She grinned and picked one up.

"Oh, now this is quite interesting," she murmured as she perused the file recounting the case of a man called "Black" Peter.

~oOo~

John returned home quite late, as he had expected, and very pleased with how the date had gone. Things with Mary Morstan had been going quite smoothly so far. She was a really pleasant girl who he had met in conjunction with a case. She seemed tolerant of Sherlock constantly demanding John's attention, and, if anything, she rather admired him for his dedication to his friend and their crime-solving. In all, Mary was quite perfect, and John could not imagine anyone he would rather be with.

He opened the door to the flat, smiling faintly at the memory of his date. He glanced around the living room, noting that Andy had taken his chair and that Sherlock had not moved at all. Neither occupant glanced up upon his entry, and he was slightly surprised at the lack of greeting from his cousin. He walked toward Andy and noticed that she was deeply engrossed in one of the more impressive case files.

"Andy," he said, a bit amused. "I'm back."

Her head popped up briefly before dropping back down to the file on her lap. "Oh, hi, John. Date went well?" she muttered absently.

John had almost forgotten about this aspect of Andy. She experienced something quite similar to Sherlock's "thinking moods." She would turn inward, momentarily shutting out her surroundings. She wasn't like Sherlock in that she would most always respond when spoken to, but her replies would sound distant and it would be very clear that she was truly focused on something else. John recalled that his Uncle Derek had hated when his daughter acted this way. Derek was a very talkative man who liked to have everyone's full attention when he spoke, and the fact that his daughter had periods of blatant disinterest in everything but her own thoughts made the man very upset.

"The date was good," John said. "Enjoying the files?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, quite," she said in that same distracted tone. "Mind if I stay here a bit longer to finish this one up?"

John chuckled. "Not at all. Stay as long as you'd like. Thank you for watching Sherlock while I was out."

She mumbled something that sounded like, "No problem," but John couldn't be sure.

Sherlock chose that moment to slowly come back to his surroundings. He blinked a few times before turning his head toward John and Andy. "When did you get here?" he asked, staring at the woman currently seated in John's chair.

"Been here awhile," she muttered.

"Okay," he replied, still apparently off in his own little world. Sherlock settled back into the sofa's cushions and closed his eyes once more.

John giggled as he observed the two, each lost in their own thoughts. _My God_, he thought. _It's like their cycles have synched_.


	4. Chapter 4

Andy ended up spending the night in 221B. She hadn't meant to, but she had drifted off while reading through an account of several particularly chilling serial suicides. John had titled the case "A Study in Pink" on his blog, but Andy found that the actual case file offered much more intriguing information. Sherlock had evidently been through the file as he worked on the case, and his observations were scribbled along the margins. Those had proved to be almost as interesting as the actual case itself.

As morning dawned, Sherlock walked sleepily out of his room. He had managed to snap out of his thoughts sometime after midnight and had stumbled into bed. There, he had spent a bit more time thinking before indulging himself in a brief nap. As he walked into the living room, clad in nothing but a dressing gown and some pyjama bottoms, he noticed that Andy had fallen asleep in John's chair. She was still dozing, her neck craned at an awkward angle. For a moment, Sherlock considered waking her and throwing her out, but, evidently, she had spent quite a few hours in his presence the previous night without bothering him excessively, so he deemed that she was alright where she was, at least for the moment.

Sherlock instead climbed the stairs to John's room and knocked once before entering.

"Make me tea," he commanded in a voice loud enough to cause John to wake up.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," the sleepy man mumbled, rubbing his eyes and glancing over at the clock. "It's seven in the morning, on my day off, and I deserve a bit of a lie in. Make your own tea."

Sherlock smiled slightly. The conversation always went this way at first, but he knew how it would ultimately end. "I expect a mug of tea in my hand within the next fifteen minutes."

"No, Sherlock. Why can't you make it yourself?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have a case. I need to think. Making tea would distract me; hence, you need to make it for me." He added as an afterthought, "You'd be helping in the apprehension of a brutal serial killer, if it makes you feel any better."

John heaved a frustrated sigh and tossed his pillow at Sherlock. The detective hadn't been paying attention and let out a satisfying _oomf_ when the pillow made contact with his face. John snickered and dragged himself out of bed.

"I really hate you sometimes," he muttered darkly.

Sherlock merely grinned in reply.

~oOo~

One week later, John was called into the surgery, despite the fact that it was his day off. Apparently, they were horribly understaffed and were in desperate need of another competent doctor. From the phone call he had received, he was able to gather that there had been a massive surge of patients and that his medical expertise was desperately needed. John, naturally, accepted this as a part of his duty as a healer and was hurriedly preparing to leave just as Andy knocked on the door.

"Sorry, can't chat," he said to her, bypassing all usual greetings. "I've got to get to work."

"Oh, okay then," she replied, confused by John's frenzied actions as he attempted to get himself ready.

He was pulling on his shoes, though he managed to fall over and accidentally fling one shoe across the room. He murmured a curse under his breath as he chased after it. Sherlock watched from the couch with a very amused smirk, laughter in his eyes.

"I was just wondering if you have some notes on those cases I read about," Andy said, fighting a smile as John got his fingers caught in the shoelaces. "I finished the case files but I wanted to know if you had any more details on them."

"Sure, over there," he mumbled, distracted. He gestured toward the desk. "Top drawer. Take whatever you want." Having finally succeeded with his shoes, he walked over toward the coat rack and picked up his jacket. "Alright, I'll be back as soon as possible, but there's no telling how long they'll need me. Andy, if you're going to stay up here while you look over those notes, make sure Sherlock gets some dinner."

Sherlock crossed his arms grumpily. "I don't need a _babysitter_."

"Says the man acting like a petulant child," John grumbled in reply. "Sherlock, play nice. Andy, don't let him bully you. And, please, please, don't burn down the flat before I get back."

With that, John ran out the door, shouting a brief apology to Mrs. Hudson as he nearly ran her over in his haste.

There was a momentarily awkward pause in the flat as Andy and Sherlock listened to John's departure. They both remained silent, though this was very different than the thoughtful quiet that they had experienced during their last encounter. This silence was distinctly uncomfortable, as the two—both of whom were admittedly socially awkward in most respects—weren't really sure what to do without their common acquaintance around.

Sherlock eventually cleared his throat and opened up a nearby file. He began to review the facts of the newest case he had been brought in to investigate (the serial killer who had targeted those unsuspecting couples had been caught four days earlier). Andy followed his lead and walked over toward the desk to fetch John's case notebook. She occupied herself with this, seating herself once more in John's armchair.

Andy and Sherlock remained wrapped up in their own projects, together in the same room but very much alone with their thoughts. Neither of them spoke a word for nearly an hour, and it was only after Andy's stomach growled rather loudly that Sherlock snapped out of his own deductions.

"Dinner?" he asked, already standing up and striding over to fetch his coat and scarf.

"Um, sure, I guess," she replied uncertainly. "What for?"

"Can't a man take out his friend for dinner?" He smiled and tried to look as if his motives were completely innocent.

Andy raised an eyebrow. "Well, sure, but—in case you hadn't noticed, Sherlock—we're not exactly _friends_. The last time I was up here, you spent the entire night ignoring me, and this is only the second conversation we've ever had. I know you don't really care about me all that much, so there's got to be some other reason you want to take me out to dinner."

Sherlock sighed, letting his act fall. "Fine, it's for a case."

"A case?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Repetition was dull. "Yes, a case—weren't you listening? Yesterday, a robbery gone wrong resulted in the death of Mr. and Mrs. Clutter. It was obvious that murder hadn't been the thief's intention, but—"

"Wait," Andy interrupted. "How do you know that?"

Sherlock made a face as if the question personally offended him. "If the thief had _intended _to kill, he would have brought some sort of weapon with him, but he didn't. Mr. Clutter was killed by a blow to the head with one of his own old sports trophies, and Mrs. Clutter died after being pushed down the stairs."

"Oh, right, of course," Andy mumbled. It really did seem quite obvious when spelled out like that.

"Anyway," Sherlock said loudly, pointedly. "I've got evidence that suggests that a waiter named Jack Thurmer committed the crime, but so far, he's refused to cooperate with the police, and until we get anything more substantial, we can't bring him in for questioning."

"So you want to go out to dinner to get evidence on a waiter?"

Sherlock nodded. _Finally_ she was catching on. "Precisely."

"Why exactly do I need to be there?"

A little smirk made its way into Sherlock's expression. "Well, it would look a bit conspicuous for a man to be dining alone; who knows what might set Thurmer on edge. He'd be much more at ease if there were two of us. Also, I know you're actually quite eager to come with me." He held up his hand to stop her from retorting. "Don't deny it. You write mystery novels for a living. Are you telling me that someone, whose job depends on having a firm grasp of the macabre, isn't willing to participate in an ongoing murder investigation?" Before she could answer, he added, "Besides, genius needs an audience, and with John gone and the skull being rather annoyingly quiet, you'll have to fill in that role for the time being."

Andy actually smiled a bit. "Alright then," she replied. "Let's get on with it, shall we?"

* * *

**Please remember to review! I'd really like to know what you think of this chapter and of the story as a whole so far.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Just a warning: I haven't exactly read through this chapter, so I'm not sure if it'll be as good or if it will flow as well as previous chapters. Anywho, please enjoy!**

Sherlock and Andy were seated at a table toward the back of the restaurant. The manager—a young man named Robert Calloway—came over and began talking excitedly to the detective. Apparently, Calloway was a huge fan of John's blog, and he was excessively eager to help Sherlock out on an official investigation. He arranged it so that Thurmer, the waiter who Sherlock suspected, would be the one serving them that evening.

"Thank you, Mr. Calloway," Sherlock said with a fake smile.

"No problem at all," the man replied, walking away with a grin plastered on his face.

"What's it like?" Andy asked when she and Sherlock were alone.

"Hmm?" the detective replied, absently scanning the menu. He wasn't going to be eating, but he felt it looked more normal if he at least glanced at the dishes the restaurant offered.

"Being famous," she clarified. "What's it like being famous? And for a good reason, too. I mean, you're not some mindless celebrity who has a bit of talent yet no personality. You do genuine good in the world, and you're a proper genius, and you help people—whether you care about them or not. You're famous for all the right reasons, so what's it like?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow, his eyes remaining glued to the menu. Had that been a compliment? It sort of sounded like one, but it wasn't like any of those simply worded ones that John usually gave him ("Brilliant! Incredible! Fantastic!"). Still, he rather liked this kind of compliment. He cleared his throat, unsure of how to reply after that. "It's a bit tedious, to be honest. People are all so mindless in their obsession with those they deem 'famous.' I'll bet half of the idiots who read John's blog can't appreciate the true intelligence required to work the way I do."

Andy nodded quietly. Before she could make any attempt at a response, their waiter approached the table. _This must be Thurmer_, she thought, feeling slightly disgusted at the idea of a murderer serving her food.

Thurmer was a small, rat-like man with a pinched face and a mess of dark, greasy hair. He was overall a very unattractive man, and the fact that he had killed two people the previous day made him even more hideous in Andy's eyes.

Her stomach squirmed when he asked for their orders, but she offered a polite smile as she gave him the name of some random pasta dish. Sherlock, of course, didn't order anything.

"You should really have gotten something," Andy commented as Thurmer departed from their table.

"I don't eat during cases," he replied shortly. "It takes my focus away from the task at hand."

"Well, John did ask me to make sure you had some dinner. You're going to need to eat something, or he'll never forgive me."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine, if we find the necessary evidence to convict Thurmer, I'll let you buy me some food after he's arrested."

Andy narrowed her eyes slightly. "Why should I have to pay for your dinner?"

"Well, I'm going to be paying for yours, so it only seems fair."

"You've got to be kidding. Sherlock, I've been sitting here the whole time. I heard the manager say that all the food we eat here will be on the house. You're not paying for a thing!"

Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh. "Fine," he drawled dramatically. "I suppose I could buy my own meal, if you feel so passionately about this."

He looked over at Andy and noticed a poorly contained smile playing at her lips. She seemed amused despite the little argument they'd just had. Sherlock, against his usual nature, felt himself grinning ever so slightly in return. He supposed she wasn't such bad company after all. She might have been simple-minded and ordinary, but at least she wasn't overly dull and permissive.

Andy's meal was presented shortly after, and she began to greedily shovel down her pasta. As she ate, Sherlock began to tell her about some of his more interesting cases. He was quite unlike John when recounting such occurrences, as he focused more on the facts and on the brilliant deductive leaps necessary to solving the case, while John was more concentrated on the dramatic element. Andy actually enjoyed Sherlock's story-telling much more than her cousin's. Sherlock, despite his adherence to the strict factual evidence, did have an undeniable flare for the theatric which made his accounts just as fascinating as John's.

About halfway through his tale of a case involving a sleazy man named Charles Augustus Milverton, Sherlock stopped abruptly and glanced over toward Thurmer, who was making his way toward their table.

"When he comes over, I need you to spill some of your water on his right arm," Sherlock whispered to Andy.

"Why?" she asked. Sherlock fixed her with his please-don't-be-daft expression, and she mumbled, "Fine, I'll do it."

When Thurmer finally reached their table, asking if they would like to order any dessert, Andy raised her glass to her lips, wondering how to proceed while making it all look casual. She jumped, shouting, "Ow!" and glaring at Sherlock as if he had just kicked her under the table. In the process, some of the water had sloshed out of her glass and onto Thurmer's right sleeve.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Andy said, taking her napkin and going to dab at the water on Thurmer's sleeve. "He kicked me, and I was just startled. I really didn't mean to do that." To her credit, she really did appear very apologetic, and Sherlock was duly impressed by her acting skills.

Thurmer grumbled something unhappily and snatched the napkin out of Andy's hands. He rolled up the sleeve so he could properly wipe the water off of his arm, and, in doing so, he revealed a rather nasty bite mark.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked.

"A dog bit me," Thurmer snapped. "But that's really none of your damn business."

"Temper, temper," Sherlock cautioned with a smirk. "I'll bet that if we took an impression of that bite mark, we'd find that it matches perfectly with the mouth of the Clutter's dog."

Thurmer looked at him, a bit of fear and confusion in his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock looked positively amused by this point. "Oh, don't play dumb with me. I know you broke into their house, and they caught you in the process, so you killed them. But before you could get away, their dog got to you. The game's up, Thurmer."

Apparently, Thurmer had other ideas. He looked around furtively before dropping the napkin and making a dash out the door. Sherlock was up immediately, following right behind the fugitive, with Andy by his side. They chased the man down an alleyway, a dead end. Thurmer was trapped, but he refused to get caught.

"Listen," he cried as Andy and Sherlock slowly walked toward him, backing him against a wall. "I got a lot of stuff from that house. A lot of stuff—_expensive _stuff. I can split it with you. I'll give you whatever you want—name your price."

"You're not getting out of it that easily," Sherlock replied.

Thurmer's eyes darted between his captors. He decided that Andy was the weaker of the two and made a run at her. She was taken by surprise as the man came charging at her. He ran into her, knocking her to the ground. He stumbled a bit as he tried to step around her body, but before he could take two steps, she reached out and grabbed his ankle. When he tried to run forward, she pulled his leg back, and he was so off-balance from this that he pitched forward and landed flat on his face.

"Good work," Sherlock murmured to her as she pinned Thurmer's hands behind his back. "Lestrade will be here in a few minutes."

Andy recognized the name of Detective Inspector Lestrade, who had been the lead investigator on many of the cases she had read over. He seemed to be Sherlock's liaison to the rest of Scotland Yard.

Sure enough, within a matter of minutes, three police cars—sirens blaring—pulled up at the mouth of the alley. A grey-haired man and a dark, curly-haired woman approached Sherlock. The latter handcuffed Thurmer and shoved him in the back of one of the cars.

"Impeccable timing, as always, Lestrade," Sherlock said to the grey man. "I think that Thurmer was getting ready to make another break for it."

Lestrade nodded. "Right, well, good work, Sherlock. I take it you found enough evidence to prove that this guy did it?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied with an air of superiority. "Look at the bite mark on his right arm—that'll tell you everything." Lestrade opened his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock cut him off with, "I really don't have time for this right now. I'll come down to the Yard in the morning and go through it step-by-step if that's what you require. But, right now, I believe Andy's going to buy me dinner."

Andy rolled her eyes.

Lestrade looked over at her as if he were just noticing her for the first time. "Oh, you must be the cousin John's been telling me about. Cassandra Parker, right?"

Andy smiled and nodded. "Yeah, that's me."

Lestrade grinned and reached out to shake her hand. "The wife and I are big fans of your books. It's hard to find very accurate crime writers these days, but you've done a very good job of it. It's really a pleasure to meet you."

Sherlock scoffed. "Stop gushing, Lestrade, you're a grown man. Andy, let's go."

He grabbed her arm and steered her out of the alley.

Donovan walked over toward Lestrade, watching the departing figures of Sherlock and Andy. "How did the freak manage to get himself _another_ friend?" she asked.

Lestrade shrugged. "I've no idea. It's good for him, though."

"Who is she?"

Both Donovan and Lestrade were now intently staring at Sherlock and Andy, who were attempting to hail a cab.

"Cassandra Parker. She just moved into 221C."

"The author?"

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah…she's John's cousin."

Donovan huffed out a laugh. "Insanity must run in the family."


	6. Chapter 6

Two weeks passed after the Thurmer business had been concluded, and Sherlock _still _hadn't been brought in on another real case. The boredom was crushing him under its excessive weight, and he could seem to find any way to alleviate it. He brought in about a dozen potential clients for interviews, but none of them offered cases even remotely interesting enough to tempt him.

John, despite his flatmate's near depression, was quite enjoying life as it was. Things were going swimmingly with Mary, and he found himself quite in love with her. She was simply perfect in every way, and he had consequently decided to spend as much time with her as possible. When he was out of the flat on dates, he always called Andy up to keep an eye on Sherlock. The consulting detective, during one of his post-case moods, couldn't be trusted to stay alone.

Andy was usually fairly welcoming of her new role as babysitter. She had started writing again, and her newest character was a brilliant detective based off of Sherlock. It was good for her to spend as much time as possible observing her "muse" to give the novel a more accurate feel. When she went up there, Sherlock usually just ignored her, and she honestly didn't mind. He wasn't exactly a thrilling conversational partner, and she knew that if the two of them actually spoke during the entire time she was with him, they would end up bickering about something. He just wasn't a very agreeable person, and she had no desire to be ridiculed or dismissed by him. So, for the most part, she remained silent, and Sherlock seemed to prefer that.

In fact, Sherlock had passed Andy off as somewhat ordinary. There were no particularly exciting traits about her that struck his interest. Her temperament was similar to John's, but he found that he couldn't relate to her as easily as he could to John. Even if Sherlock had been interested in making conversation with her, he wouldn't know how exactly to go about it. He and John had just sort of _become _friends, and he wasn't sure how to replicate that process. Besides, he already had enough average-minded friends; he didn't really need another one, so he passed Andy off as nothing more than just another one of the idiots that surrounded him.

Still, they tolerated each other. They were always fairly quiet together, but it wasn't a bitter or uncomfortable silence. Andy and Sherlock remained alone in each other's company, and both of them seemed fairly content with this arrangement. It allowed for solitude of mind without the loneliness of being by oneself.

Twice during those two weeks after the Thurmer case, Sherlock had taken Andy out on a chase. These were for very minor, very petty crimes that had been brought to his attention through his website, but the thrill of the chase offered some alleviation from the crushing tedium. As their second pursuit neared its end, the two found themselves panting on top of a rooftop. Lestrade had just stopped by to arrest the criminal they had cornered up there, but neither Andy nor Sherlock felt any inclination to move at the present moment.

Andy walked over toward the edge of the roof and looked down to the street far, far below. There was a little wall around the edge to prevent anyone from accidentally falling over, but she felt distinctly unsecure up there. A new flood of adrenalin pulsed through her veins and she held onto the wall so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

Sherlock observed her behavior and walked up beside her, his brow furrowed. "You're afraid of heights," he announced.

"Yes, I am," she answered, even though she knew it hadn't been a question. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground below.

"And yet you're standing here, looking over the edge." He tilted his head to the side as he inspected her. "You're a thrill-seeker. You like adrenalin and confronting fear. You get off on it."

Her head snapped up. "Wha—no, no, I don't 'get off on it.' I'm not a thrill-seeker or whatever it was that you called me."

"Well, maybe saying you got off on it was a bit too strong," he replied thoughtfully. "But you really can't deny that at least some part of you enjoys being faced with fear. Honestly, it's fine. John's the same way. He _needs _the chase, and, it seems, so do you."

Andy opened and closed her mouth twice. He really did have a point there. There she was, deathly afraid of heights, yet still deciding to look down from that extremely tall building. "I-I suppose you're right…as always."

Sherlock smiled. "Of course I'm right."

Andy looked back over the edge of the roof. Sherlock could see in her expression the adrenalin, the fear, the excitement, and the sheer thrill of being _alive_.

But there was also something else, something shining in the depths of her eyes—it was danger. Not danger toward others, but toward herself. She clearly had some deep, personal issues tied in with her thrill-seeking nature, and these caused this danger to manifest itself when confronted with this type of fear or excitement. Sherlock wasn't a psychologist, so he couldn't exactly be sure, but he felt fairly confident that only very _broken_ people ever looked this dangerous.

So Andy was broken, in the same what that both he and John were broken. Being broken like this was dangerous, and it brought them all together in ways that weren't at all rational. Each of them—wrecked in their own way, alone for so long—needed to feel the thrill of being alive, needed to know that they were _living_ rather than just existing.

The danger became more pronounced in Andy's eyes, and Sherlock knew that broken people shouldn't stand so close to the edges of buildings—he should know. He put his arm around her and gently eased her away from the edge.

Suddenly, Andy wasn't quite as dull and mundane as he had previously assumed.


	7. Chapter 7

**I'm not too sure about this chapter. I've written it while procrastinating, and that doesn't exactly allow my creative writing skills to flow in abundance. Anyway, I'd appreciate your feedback on this one.**

Andy walked into her kitchen one morning, rubbing her eyes groggily. She wasn't fully awake yet, and she really needed a cup of tea or coffee or _something _to snap her out of this sleepy trance she was in. She put the kettle on, and while she waited for the water to boil, she walked toward the refrigerator, wondering if she actually had any food left.

She opened the fridge, stared inside for a moment.

There was a foot—a severed, _human _foot—sitting on a plate on the top shelf.

"A foot," she mumbled incredulously to herself. "Dammit…" She shut the fridge door and yelled, "Sherlock!" loud enough for the consulting detective to hear.

Sherlock smirked as he heard Andy's shout, which was shortly followed by terse, angry footsteps pounding up the stairs. _I take it she's found my experiment_, he thought.

It had been a little over a month since Andy had moved into 221C, and she had assimilated into life on Baker Street quite nicely. She didn't do much, other than sit around writing all day, so she often meandered up to 221B to visit John and Sherlock. The three got along very well, but Sherlock recognized that she wasn't yet as used to his own idiosyncrasies as John was. That was why he had put the foot in her fridge—it was a way to "break her in," to fully accommodate her with how things went with Sherlock Holmes. He figured it would be easier to start out small, which is why he'd gone with the foot rather than the severed head as he had done with John.

Andy angrily burst through the door, stomping over toward where Sherlock was sprawled across the sofa.

"Sherlock," she said in a dangerously even voice. "Why is there a foot in my fridge?"

He merely cocked an eyebrow at her, not deigning to respond.

"_Sherlock_." She was losing much of her control, and there was a little bit of emotion seeping into those loaded words. "Why the _hell _is there a foot in my _fridge_?"

"There was no more room in mine. I didn't think you'd mind. It's for a case, after all."

He did his best to keep his tone and expression neutral, though he was a bit excited and pleased internally. To be honest, he did sort of enjoy this part, watching these people try to remain calm, try to convince themselves to let Sherlock's actions slide. People always tried to force themselves to stick with him in the beginning. They all fell in love with the _idea _of who he was—the lonely detective, misunderstood and ostracized by society. They all wanted to be the one that fixed him, the one that wouldn't leave. Of course, after Sherlock tested them (with body parts, with rudeness, with blunt deductions, etc.), they all eventually left, ran off, gave up. Except John, that is, who stayed despite this. Still, even John had endured these little tests, and Andy could not be fully accepted into life at Baker Street if she didn't undergo them as well.

So, there they were—Andy, hovering angrily by the sofa, glaring down at Sherlock, while he looked calmly back up at her, waiting to see if she would leave like the others, or stay like John. It really was quite a defining moment, even if she was unaware of this.

Andy took a breath and walked into the kitchen. She opened the fridge door and saw that it was, in fact, completely full of experiments already. She sighed and realized that this was just a part of life when Sherlock Holmes was your neighbor.

She made her way back into the living room, doing her best to beat down her temper. "Listen, Sherlock, I understand that you need somewhere to put your severed feet when you run out of room up here, but could you at least _tell _me next time? I got a rather nasty shock when I opened the refrigerator, expecting to find milk, and found a bloody appendage instead." She shut her eyes and took a steadying breath, still trying to subdue her previous anger. "Just…just let me know the next time you do something like this, yeah?" She added, almost as an afterthought, "And try to keep your experiments away from the food."

Sherlock gazed at her fixedly. This had gone better than he had expected. Andy had just proved herself to be a completely acceptable addition to the Baker Street family. She would tolerate experiments in the fridge, which, believe it or not, said a lot about her character.

Sherlock allowed one side of his mouth to twitch up into an almost-half-smile. "Would you like some tea?" he asked after a moment. He felt like celebrating a bit. It wasn't as if the two of them were really "friends," but her passing this test certainly opened that up as a possibility. _Imagine that_, he thought. _Another friend. _

Andy sighed, releasing some of the tension that had built up. She smiled tensely down at Sherlock. "No, not really." She honestly wasn't in the mood for _anything_ right now, all previous hunger and thirst having disappeared.

"Oh, well, you should make me some anyway." Sherlock settled deeper into the cushions of the couch and shut his eyes.

Andy furrowed her brow. "What was that?"

Sherlock was about to roll his eyes before he realized that his closed eyelids would prevent Andy from seeing, and it was much less enjoyable if she couldn't at least _observe _his annoyance with her repetition. "I said that you should make me some tea," he said slowly, pronouncing each word carefully.

"Right," she replied, almost distant. "That's what I thought." She was becoming frustrated again. Honestly, she'd just granted this madman access to her kitchen for his bloody experiments, and now he was expecting her to act as his own personal servant as well? _Hell no_, she thought bitterly. _He didn't even _ask _for it. He just demanded it…No._

When she hadn't moved after a minute, Sherlock cracked an eye open. Andy was still standing in the same spot, her arms crossed. "Well? Aren't you going to make it?"

"No, Sherlock," she replied huffily. "Why can't you make it yourself?"

He looked at her indignantly. "I'm _thinking_. Making tea would be an unnecessary distraction." He pulled himself into a sitting position. "I don't know why you're being so stubborn about this. John makes me tea all the time," he grumbled.

She really didn't see any reason why "thinking" would prevent him from walking into the kitchen and putting the kettle on. Making tea wasn't a very complex process. Surely he could do that and still think at the same time. "I'm not John," Andy said simply.

"Clearly," Sherlock snapped back. "_John_ is much more reasonable about things like this. He understands the importance of my work, and he doesn't purposely impede my thinking process by refusing to do as I ask!"

"Jesus, Sherlock," she breathed out irritably. "You could at least ask nicely for it, rather than just _commanding _me to make you some."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What's the point of asking when I know you'll make it anyway?"

Andy placed her hands on her hips. "I'm not making anything until you say please."

He glared at her. "You're being utterly ridiculous. I'm not saying any such thing, and you _will _go and make me tea."

"No."

"Yes."

"Sherlock, you get nothing until you ask nicely. It's not that hard."

"I don't understand why you're deliberately messing up my thinking process by acting like this. Make. Me. Some. Tea."

"For crying out loud! You can think _while _making tea. Putting the kettle on is something you can do mindlessly, so getting up, going into the kitchen, and making yourself a cuppa wouldn't take too much away from your precious 'thinking process.' "

"Why are you being so _difficult_?" he shouted at her. Things had been going so well, too. She had been accepting enough of the body parts in the fridge, but when it came to a simple cup of tea, she wouldn't put up with it. "This is why I don't spend time with people like you," he shot out angrily, aiming to make his words _hurt_. In all honesty, he was upset that she wasn't as tolerant of him as he had expected. He had thought that she would be different—like John or Mrs. Hudson or even Lestrade. But no, she was just like the others…just like all those damn idiots who left and grew to resent him.

" 'People like me?' What the hell's that supposed to mean?" she asked in a raised voice.

"Ordinary people," Sherlock sneered. He knew this would insult her the most. It always insulted people the most. "Dull, mundane, not very bright. People like you can't _understand_ people like me. You don't _understand _that my 'thinking' is more important than whatever you're doing at the moment, which is why you should be _making me tea_, instead of standing there arguing about it!"

She rolled her eyes and moved her arms around for dramatic effect. "Oh p_lease_, Sherlock, you can't be serious. Of course I know your thinking is more important than my standing around. I know that, but I don't get why you can't just make your own goddamn tea! I mean, _really_! It's not that complicated. You can think _while _doing it, and it's completely unfair of you to just _expect _me to bend over backwards to—"

"I'm not asking you to 'bend over backwards,' " he interrupted loudly. "I'm asking you to make me some _tea_. I don't understand why _you_ won't just—"

"This is _ridiculous_, Sherlock," she yelled back. "You've got to be joking! I just gave you full access to my _kitchen_—the place where I keep my food, and I'm allowing you to use it to store experiments. You should be thanking me for that, not expecting me to bend to your every whim from here on out. The least you could do is ask nicely for some goddamn tea, and maybe I'll _consider _getting it for you. But you won't even say please! You can't be so _demanding_ of your friends!"

Sherlock scoffed bitterly. "We're not _friends_," he spat, screwing up his face as he did so.

"Oh, well, pardon me for thinking so. It's just that I've put up with so much of your _shit _so far, and I stuck around. I figured that constituted some friendship." Andy was, of course, over-exaggerating. Sherlock hadn't actually been testing her nerves much at all over the time they'd known each other, but she was really upset, and exaggeration seemed to make her feel better.

"This isn't _friendship_," he sneered. "This is you _imposing _your presence on me by coming up to the flat so often."

That stung. Andy was actually a bit hurt by those words. She hadn't thought of it as "imposing," but apparently that's how Sherlock viewed it. She had been enjoying herself. _Has he really hated spending time with me that much__? _she wondered. And to think, she had actually thought them friends.

"Well, fine," she said with an air of finality, her voice lowering from its previous shout. "If you won't say _please_, if you refuse to stop being so demanding, I guess I'll just go. Besides, I wouldn't want to _burden _you with my presence any longer. It's clear you don't want me here." She started walking toward the door. She turned just before leaving. "And make your own goddamn tea for a change, and next time you want someone else to do it for you, be polite about it."

And then she walked out, not even slamming the door behind her. That unsettled Sherlock the most, the fact that she didn't slam the door. That meant that her anger, her passion, had been replaced by something more real, more penetrating, more wounded.

This could have all been avoided had he just swallowed his sense of self-importance and said please when asking for a cup of tea. Interpersonal relationships were too complex, too fragile, for Sherlock to navigate. He knew he had said some very hurtful things, and he didn't mean almost any of them, and the whole argument had been utterly ridiculous and avoidable, but it had all happened and there was no taking it back. Andy had left, just like everyone else, and perhaps that was for the best. She now knew what he was like. She would stop trying, like all the others. She would hate him, and he would deal with that as he did with the hatred of everyone else.

So—if this was to be expected—why did Sherlock have a faintly bad taste in his mouth? Why did he feel that all of this had been more than a bit not good?

* * *

**Please remember to review! Let me know what you think so far.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry if it seems like that plot is moving a little slow at this point! I promise it will really pick up in the next chapter. Anyway, please enjoy this chapter, and let me know what you think!**

The day after Andy and Sherlock's row, Mycroft stopped by, though—rather than going up to 221B as per usual—he made his way down to Andy's flat. Now, he had decided, was the perfect time to make his customary offer to the newest addition to Sherlock's life.

Andy stumbled out of her bedroom, dressed in flannel pyjama pants and a loose T-shirt. She hadn't slept well at all, as she was still a bit upset over her fight with Sherlock. As she walked toward the kitchen, intent on making herself a steaming cup of tea, she noticed a strange man sitting at the table. Her heart stuttered for a moment as panic briefly took over. She took a few breaths, steadying herself, and proceeded into the kitchen, ignoring this stranger's creepy stare. She knew who he was, but the initial shock was still quite overwhelming.

"Ms. Parker, I presume?" he said with a tone of extreme politeness, despite the fact that he'd broken into her flat and creepily waited for her to wake up.

Andy didn't look back at him, and instead she focused on making tea. "Mycroft Holmes? John warned me that you might do something like this…although I have to admit, I wasn't quite expecting to wake up to a strange man sitting at my table."

Mycroft nodded slightly. He was aware that John had informed his cousin about this impending visit, though Mycroft had expressly warned the doctor against revealing the nature of his proposal. It was better, in his opinion, to see Andy's honest first reaction to being asked to spy on Sherlock. This way, he could better judge her character and decide whether or not he approved of her taking a more active role in his brother's life.

A few minutes later, Andy took her steaming cup of tea and sat down across from Mycroft. "This is weird," she stated. "What exactly did you want?"

"To make you an offer."

Andy narrowed her eyes. "What kind of _offer_?" She had a feeling that she would be declining whatever Mycroft proposed.

He smiled politely at her, leaning farther back into his chair. "I'm willing to pay you a steady sum of money—an income. I can also arrange for you to sign on with the most prestigious editors, publishers, and agents in the book industry. That'll surely help your novels reach an even broader base of people. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

_That would be nice_, Andy thought. "What would you want in return?"

"Information—nothing you'd feel uncomfortable disclosing."

"Information on what?" She was highly suspicious by now. There had to be a massive catch for Mycroft to be making her an offer as good as the one he'd just described.

"Sherlock," he replied. "He's my brother, as you well know, and I worry about him constantly. All I'd ask from you is that you keep me informed on his more adventurous activities. I'd just be keeping tabs on him, making sure he stays out of trouble."

What kind of man recruited people to spy on his younger brother? "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes—"

"Please, call me Mycroft."

"Well, then, Mycroft, I'm sorry, but I really don't think that's going to happen. I wouldn't feel comfortable doing something like that."

Mycroft shrugged and looked away nonchalantly. "I don't see why you'd feel that way. After all, it's not like you and my brother are friends. Didn't he just finish telling you how much of a burden you've been recently?"

Hurt and frustration swelled within Andy once more, as Sherlock's words from the night before came rushing back to her. "I…well, I guess that's right," she replied tersely. "We're not friends, apparently, and he may not enjoy my company as much as I'd thought, but it's still wrong for me to be spying on him simply because you want to 'keep tabs.' He hasn't done anything wrong, and he doesn't deserve to be treated like that."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Mycroft said, though a faint ghost of a smile was making its way onto his face.

~oOo~

Up in 221B, Sherlock had just gotten a text from Lestrade. Apparently, a rather interesting case had just cropped up, and the consulting detective's expertise was needed. He had just finished shouting at John to get up and get ready to leave, and, with nothing else to do while he waited for the doctor, he sat down on the couch and pondered his fight with Andy the night before. He honestly regretted most of what he said. He actually did quite like her, and he was a bit upset now that things were ruined between them.

John came down from his room, eyeing his flatmate warily. He had, of course, heard about their little row. Mrs. Hudson had overheard Andy and Sherlock shouting, and she quickly filled John in on all that had happened when he got home. Knowing that his best friend had bullied his cousin didn't exactly put him in the most comfortable position, and, if he was honest with himself, he really did think that Sherlock should apologize. Still, knowing Sherlock Holmes, that would never happen.

Sherlock glanced up as John came into the room. An idea popped into his head, and, before he was really aware that he was speaking the words, he blurted out, "Why don't you invite Andy to tag along?"

John furrowed his brow. He was fairly certain that Andy was still angry at Sherlock, and that girl could _really _hold a grudge. Besides, Sherlock wasn't exactly known for his ability to entertain extra company, so bringing Andy along would almost certainly be explosive. "Are you sure that's the best idea?" he asked hesitantly.

Sherlock looked a bit deflated, though he attempted to hide that behind his usual mask. John _had_ to understand that this was his way of apologizing to her. "Well…I just…thought that she might…enjoy a more first-hand experience with a crime scene. It might help her writing…I guess. Never mind, then."

Understanding dawned and John smiled slightly. "I'll just go down and ask her if she'd like to join us then."

Sherlock shot his friend a small, grateful smile. Just as John reached the door, Sherlock spoke up and added, "Oh, and…if she says anything about 'not wanting to impose'…just tell her she'll be no burden to us at all." He looked almost embarrassed as he said this, a bit of shame creeping into his nonchalant expression.

John was a bit confused by this, but he nodded once and headed down to Andy's flat. Just as he raised his hand to knock, none other than the great and mysterious Mycroft Holmes opened the door.

"Ah, John," he said in that tone that was so laced with fake politeness that it was sickening. "I was just leaving."

"Er, right. Did you make your offer to Andy?"

"Yes."

John waited for him to elaborate, and when the other man refused to clarify, John rolled his eyes and pressed, "Did she take it?"

Mycroft smiled a bit. "No, I'm afraid she didn't. Anyway, I'd love to chat, but I really must be off. I'll see you later, John."

"Right," John grumbled, not looking forward to seeing the elder Holmes any time soon. As Mycroft left, John slowly eased his way into Andy's flat. "Andy, you here?" he called, though he knew perfectly well that she was.

"In the kitchen," she replied.

John made his way toward her and entered the kitchen just as Andy was placing her mug in the sink. "So, Sherlock and I have a case, and he asked me to get you to tag along."

Andy furrowed her brow. "He _wants _me to come with you guys." She rolled her eyes. "Are you sure I wouldn't be _imposing_?"

John chuckled uncertainly. "He, uh, he said you'd say that. And he said to tell you that you wouldn't be imposing at all." When she still looked unconvinced, he sighed and said, "Look, Andy, he's trying to make it up to you, okay? I know he feels bad about what he said, and he shouldn't have said those things in the first place, but I know that this is his way of apologizing. So, please, come to the crime scene. It would really mean a lot to him."

John looked so desperate at that moment that she really couldn't refuse. She wasn't exactly sure that she believed him, but she would give it a shot just to see if he really felt bad about what he'd said. "Alright, fine, just give me a minute to change and I'll be right out."

John broke out into a large grin. He pecked her on the cheek. "Thank you! This is good…this is very good. Alright, I'll be upstairs. Just come on out when you're ready."

John was proud. Andy, he realized, was Sherlock's best attempt at making another friend at the moment, and John was strongly supportive of the idea that Sherlock should make as many friends as possible at this stage in his life. So, now that Andy had decided to forget their nasty argument from the night before, there was the chance that Sherlock would eventually form a healthy bond with her as he had with John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.

Andy slowly picked through her clothes. What did one wear to a crime scene? She eventually decided on a nice, average-looking outfit and a pair of faded sneakers. Her reddish blonde hair was still messy from sleep, and she decided that, rather than dealing with it, she'd just stick it in a bun and call it a day. Finally, almost pleased with her appearance, Andy stepped out of her bedroom and grabbed her phone. She was about to go upstairs to John and Sherlock's flat, when she heard the kettle whistling from the kitchen.

She slowly walked into the kitchen, curiosity and confusion etched in the lines of her face. What she saw there was the most shocking sight she'd ever come across. Sherlock Holmes was standing by the kettle, pouring the boiling water into a mug.

He was making tea.

"Sherlock?" she said tentatively. "What's going on?"

He didn't look up at her. Instead, he focused all his attention on the cuppa in front of him. He really hoped that this would work. Apologies were not his forte, but he had assumed that this would suffice. Now he wasn't so sure that it would. "I'm making you tea," he replied, keeping his voice neutral.

Andy saw the tension in his shoulders and the stiffness of his posture. He was uncomfortable, she could tell, and yet he was there, making her tea. She recognized, of course, that this was his attempt at apologizing, and, in a way, it was rather sweet. He still refused to make eye contact, but she smiled lightly all the same.

"Thank you," she said, trying to express all her forgiveness in those two words. It was clear that he did actually feel bad about their fight, and she wasn't really willing to stay angry with him when he was taking such pains to make it up to her. Besides, he was taking her to a crime scene, which was not only interesting in itself but also beneficial to her work. She could forgive him, if only for that.

Andy reached out to take the tea, the symbol of forgiveness, despite the fact that she'd already had one cup already.

Sherlock finally tore his eyes away from the tea as he handed her the mug. She had a gentle smile on her lips, and he hesitantly returned it.

_We're good_, her expression said.

_I'm sorry_, his declared.

And, just like that, it was all fine.

* * *

**Let me know what you thought!**


	9. Chapter 9

**I'm not exactly sure about this chapter. I had a good idea about what to do with it, but sleep-deprivation has sort of imepeded my writing abilities further. Anyway, remember to review!**

"So," Andy said, breaking the silence in the cab. They were headed toward the crime scene, and she had still not heard any details about it. "What kind of crime scene are we headed to? I'm assuming there's been a murder, because Sherlock rarely deals with anything less."

He flashed a smug grin in her direction, as if her comment had been some sort of compliment. "Yes, well, it _is _a murder. Lestrade was a bit vague in his text, but apparently a man came home to find a dead clown in on his sofa_."_

Andy was caught between obligatory solemnity and amused disbelief. _A dead clown. _It even sounded bizarre. "How was he killed?" she asked, very aware that giggling at a time like this would make her seem psychopathic. It was just that the whole situation was so random; this was not a crime she would have thought anyone would ever feel an inclination to commit_____._

"His throat was slit," Sherlock replied, staring out the window. He didn't look too interested in answering any further questions, so Andy decided to strike up a conversation with John instead.

"This is really bad of me to say—especially right now—but I really hate clowns," she commented, scrunching her nose up to indicate her distaste.

John chuckled. "I remember that. But you're not scaredof them, are you?"

Andy scoffed proudly. "Of course I'm not _scared _of them. Don't be ridiculous. I just don't trust them. They have to paint smiles on their faces. Why would you trust anything that has to paint on happiness?"

John grinned and shook his head fondly. "In your first book, wasn't a clown the victim?"

She nodded and laughed, recalling that very rubbish story. "Yeah, it was called _Child's Play _and it involved a murdered clown and an author of children's books. Thank God I published that under a pseudonym. I can't imagine what fans would think of me if they knew that I had actually written that book_."_

Andy had published _Child's Play _when she had been only nineteen, but she had used the name E.B. Archer. After that, however, all of her novels were published under her real name, Cassandra Parker. That first book had been a learning experience, and she was immensely grateful that it hadn't achieved the same level of popularity as her more recent projects. Honestly, she hated that particular piece, and she felt almost embarrassed by how unskilled and unpracticed she had been when the novel had been released_._

The trio arrived at the crime scene a short while later. The murder had occurred within a very plain, very average-looking house, and the police cars swarming around the perimeter looked extremely out of place in that nice neighborhood. As Andy, Sherlock, and John slipped under the crime scene tape, Lestrade approached them and filled them in on the details.

"The victim's in the sitting room on the sofa, but we didn't find any wallet or ID on him, so as of right now he's a John Doe," the detective inspector explained. "He's dressed in a clown costume with full makeup, and his throat was slit. The house belongs to a man called Jeremy Ralke. He's just over there." He gestured to a man standing a few yards away, a shock blanket draped over his shoulders. "He writes children's books for a living, and he claims to have no prior connection to the victim or to any clowns at all." He rubbed a hand through his hair. "It's all a bit strange, if you ask me. I honestly have no idea what's going on with this case."

"Right, well," Sherlock said with a grin. "Let's get to work then, shall we?"

He stalked into the house, his sights set on the sitting room. Sure enough, there was a man dressed as a clown planted on the sofa. His eyes were opened, eerie and glassy. Blood that had oozed down from his neck stained the upper portion of his costume, and, though the wound across his throat didn't look particularly gruesome, the sight of an actual, _dead _human being made Andy feel slightly queasy and slightly excited. It was the excitement that worried her. It wasn't that she was pleased at seeing a fresh corpse—even if it was the body of a much-despised clown—but it was, as Sherlock had noted on that roof all that time ago, a thrill of excitement that could only be gained from facing real, tangible fear_._

_There is definitely something wrong with me, _she thought uneasily_._

But her slight disgust with her own reaction at the sight was soon replaced by an overwhelming sense of familiarity. The closer she examined the scene, the more she was convinced that she _knew _this. The whole scenario—a clown with a slit throat, an author of children's stories, a nice, average neighborhood, even the position that the body was in—she had written it all. It mimicked, almost exactly, the events of her first novel.

_This is _Child's Play, she mused. She tried to shake that thought from her mind. Why would anyone decide to base a killing off of that awful book? She was being egotistical by putting herself at such high importance, by assuming that this murder had something to do with her.

While Andy's mind was racing with these ideas, Sherlock's was completely focused on the case at hand. The victim had been killed no more than three hours ago. He was a single man in his early-forties, and he was—Sherlock soon deduced—a clown by profession. He had been a wealthy man from a well-established family, though he most likely loathed all his familial connections. Tense relationship with his parents, two cats, lived alone…Sherlock's brain reeled off countless deductions.

Lestrade entered to room. "What've you got? Anything?"

"He was a single man, lived alone with two cats," Sherlock began. "He applied to makeup to himself, and I'm almost certain that he was a clown professionally. He was forced, by the killer, to dress in this costume and to paint his face in this way. He was drugged, brought here, positioned, and killed. For some reason, the murderer must've forced the victim's eyes opened after he'd killed him. Not sure why that is, but I'll soon find out."

"How do you know all of that?" Lestrade questioned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, acting as if he were reluctant to divulge his process. He was, however, actually quite eager to explain himself, especially as this was Andy's first proper crime with him. In all honesty, he wanted to show off a bit, to impress her, to earn compliments. "No wedding ring or indications that he's ever worn one prove that he's not married. I'm assuming he's single based on the fact that he's a _clown, _and I'm fairly certain that women aren't keen on dating professional clowns. Besides, if you look at his costume—really look at it—you'll notice that it's grossly unwashed and that it has been for some time now. No woman would allow her boyfriend to go out in an outfit that disgusting. So, there, he's single and he lives alone. No one to look after him, which is obvious by his appearance and his profession. He's got two cats, which is really quite clear if you notice the two different shades of fur around his ankles. That's cat fur, obviously. He's got makeup on his fingers and in his nails, which proves that he applied it to himself, but if you look closely at his face, at the way it's been painted, you'll notice that there are smudges from where his hands were shaking. A man who's been a clown professionally for much of his life wouldn't allow his makeup to be applied that sloppily. So he was under duress when he put it one, which leads us to the conclusion that the killer forced this man to don his clown getup. I'm assuming he was drugged because there's no sign of struggle, and it would be difficult to coerce a grown man into breaking into a stranger's house without some sort of resistance. He was drugged, killed, and positioned here. See: it's all quite obvious when you think about it."

"That's amazing," Andy said, smiling admiringly up at Sherlock. "It's really incredible what you do."

One corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upward. "I'm not done yet. The victim is fairly heavy, and the killer would have had to drag him everywhere once he was drugged. If you look at the carpet"—he gestured to the material on which they were standing—"you can map out the progress of the killer's attempts at moving the victim. Look at the scuffed up portions of the carpet and at the furniture that's been moved around slightly—they all indicate that the murderer had a particularly difficult time carrying the victim. I'd wager that the killer is either a woman or a rather weak man. The lock on the front door was picked, but it was rather poorly done. This isn't someone who will have committed any crimes like this before, and I'm assuming we're working with an absolute amateur. Still, whoever the killer is, he or she covered their tracks fairly well considering their newness to crime, so I'm guessing that the man or woman we're looking for has done a good amount of research on this topic before actually committing the act."

Sherlock waited patiently, expecting another exclamation of praise from Andy. He was a bit put out when she failed to say anything.

"Good work, Sherlock," John offered as his cousin remained silent. He could tell that Sherlock was a bit deflated at not being complimented by her.

Andy, meanwhile, was too completely engrossed by something she'd seen on the victim to notice what was going on around her. "What's that?" she asked, pointing at the dead clown's clenched fist.

"His hand," Lestrade replied, confused.

"Don't be an idiot, Lestrade," Sherlock snapped, slowly approaching the victim. He crouched down beside the fist to which Andy had been referring, and gently eased his fingers open. Inside the clenched hand was a note.

Sherlock held it up so that the whole company could see what it was. He unfolded the piece of paper and read aloud,

"It's been years but I haven't forgot.  
Your courage is gone but mine is not.  
The funny man will laugh no more,  
And you've got a taste of what's in store.  
I'm coming for you next so be prepared—"

" 'And remember, my dear, you should be scared,' " Andy quoted, despite having never seen the note.

John looked at his cousin with uneasy confusion. "Andy," he said slowly. "How did you know that's what it said?"

She wasn't looking at him, but she kept her eyes fixed on the body in front of them. She felt a bit nauseous. _This can't be real, _she thought.

"Andy," Lestrade murmured, approaching her cautiously. "Did you have anything to do with this?"

Her head snapped up at that and she looked a bit indignant. _This looks really bad,_ she mused. Obviously, to the DI, it appeared as though she had some sort of connection to the crime. That would be the most apparent explanation for her knowledge of the poem's contents without having actually seen what the note had said.

Before she could defend herself, Sherlock spoke up. "She obviously had _nothing _to do with this crime. She only knows about it because it's been based off the events described in her first book, isn't that right?"

She nodded, shooting a grateful glance in Sherlock's direction. It was nice to know that he had her back. "Right. My first novel, _Child's Play, _is exactly like this. I know that poem because I wrote it. I wrote…all of this. I wrote that note, I put it in the victim's hand, I sat him on the sofa of a children's author…I created it all. This whole thing is taken straight out of my book."

As Andy spoke these words, the faint thrill of excitement was still humming through her veins, but she ignored this in favor of the more uneasy, sickening feeling that had settled in her stomach. She had, in some way, facilitated all of this. She had inspired a murder, and there was a corpse—a human being who had ceased to exist because of her book—sitting on the couch in testament to this. Even if there was no direct involvement, she still felt responsible for the murder, and that feeling was enough to override the danger and excitement that she had previously felt. She was broken, and she would always enjoy that thrill of knowing that she was _alive,_ but there were some things—more serious issues such as this—which were enough to sober her up, to gently ease the adrenalin and the excitement out of her system.

"Oh God…this is really bad," she muttered, looking around the room.

Sherlock awkwardly reached out to place a hand on her shoulder in what he assumed was a comforting gesture. He couldn't help but silently agree with her statement.


	10. Chapter 10

Andy slept on the sofa in 221B that night. John was unwilling to let his cousin drift too far away, despite the fact that the killer had made no indication that he or she would be targeting the young author. Still, John's protectiveness of her was running strong, and he had essentially commanded her to spend the night in their flat.

Sherlock came into the living room the next morning to find that John was seated in his armchair, laptop open before him. But he wasn't even looking at the computer's screen. Rather, he was placing his full attention on the sleeping form of his cousin sprawled across the couch.

John heard Sherlock enter the room but made no acknowledgement of his presence. John knew that his friend wasn't exactly used to his duties-as-best-mate, but at that moment, he needed a confidant, so he said, "This reminds me of when we were kids."

Sherlock wasn't sure if he was supposed to respond to that. He slowly—silently—walked over to his own chair and sat down, leaning forward to indicate his interest.

John tore his eyes away from Andy and faced Sherlock. "When we were younger," he began, "our families would spend summers together. Sometimes my parents and me and Harry would go over to America to stay with Andy and Uncle Derek, and sometimes they would come here to stay with us. Harry would usually go off and do her own thing, and I was always left in charge of Andy. It's not that she was a bad kid…she was just really _curious_, especially about very morbid stuff. There was this one time where a neighbor of hers had committed suicide. She was about twelve at the time, and I was seventeen, and when I stopped watching her for a minute, she went to the neighbor's house and tried to break in. I caught her before she did anything, but she would have gone through with it. I asked her why she would try something like that, and—I still remember her exact words—she said, 'I just wanted to see why he did it.' " John shook his head and ran his hand over his face. "She just wanted to see why he did it…she's always been that kind of curious, and that's a very dangerous kind of curious to be. She always went off doing stuff like that. 'Having adventures' is what she would call it. But, even as a kid, you could tell that she didn't really think about the consequences during those kinds of situations. When something intrigued her, she would pursue it, no matter where it took her. She sought out adventure, and I'm worried that she's still like that. Especially now, with a killer running around, using her book as inspiration, I'm worried that she'll do something stupid in pursuit of adventure, just like she did when we were kids."

John rested his head in his hands, shielding his eyes from the rest of the room. Sherlock glanced over to where Andy was sleeping.

Except she wasn't sleeping. She cracked on eye open, and, upon noticing that John couldn't see her, she opened her eyes completely and glanced at Sherlock. Her expression was apologetic and pleading.

_I won't do anything stupid_, she was trying to communicate. _This is serious and I won't get myself into trouble_.

Sherlock, despite his usual ineptitude at reading social clues, seemed to get her message. "John," he said. "I really don't think she'll act too idiotic with this situation. I mean, even with her adventurous and dangerous side, she's not stupid. She knows how grave the matter is, and she's not going to risk her life over something like this."

John finally lifted his head. Andy's eyes snapped shut, unbeknownst to him. "How do you know?" he asked. "You don't even know her."

"I…_do _know her…a bit," Sherlock replied slowly. "We're…friends—of a sort. From what you were describing earlier, she sounds quite a bit like me, especially in my younger years. Mycroft had to run around, chasing after me to make sure that I didn't get myself into serious trouble, and you had to do that with her. But I think the difference is that she grew out of the childish carelessness which allowed her to pursue every curious thing that crossed her path—I never did. I don't think about consequences often enough, and I don't know when to stop. But she's smart—she's learned over the years to consider these things. She doesn't have to risk her life to prove she's clever, because she's perfectly fine with people thinking she's just as clever as she seems. I always want people to think I'm _more _brilliant or _more _intelligent than their last impression of me. I have to prove myself, even if it's just _to _myself. She doesn't have that issue. She won't do anything stupid—trust me. She understands the gravity of what's going on, and she won't allow her own curiosity to put her into danger."

John allowed these words to sink in. He almost believed them. But, then again, the idea that Sherlock had take such care analyzing his cousin seemed slightly odd, and he wasn't exactly sure if he could truly accept this speech as legitimate. Still, it did ease some of his immediate tension, so he didn't question the validity of what his friend had just told him. "Thanks. I needed to hear that." John stood, stretching. "I've been sitting down here for hours doing nothing. I really need to get out of this flat." He grabbed his coat. "I'm going for a walk. Make sure she gets breakfast when she wakes up."

Sherlock nodded, and John left. As the door shut behind the doctor, Andy opened her eyes once more. She was almost afraid to actually speak, fearing that it would disturb the silence that had been established on her part.

She mouthed the word, "Thanks," to demonstrate her appreciation for what Sherlock had said on her behalf.

He nodded once, giving a small smile. _You're welcome._

She continued to lie there, and he eventually grabbed the case file to look over. Neither spoke a word, and, Sherlock mused, that had to be one of the most incredible displays of friendship he'd ever been a part of. They were able to sit there quietly and not feel awkward or obligated to speak. Even in this total silence, they were able to demonstrate their compatibility on at least some level—they could remain comfortable with one another without saying a word.

_This is nice_, Sherlock thought before delving into the case file once more.


	11. Chapter 11

**My apologies for the overwhelming length of this chapter and for it's rather rubbish ending. I couldn't think of how to leave it off while simultaneously making the ending interesting, so I just kind of _ended_. Anyway, please do enjoy this chapter and let me know your thoughts on it!**

Lestrade came round two days after the clown—who had been identified as Carl Peterson—had been discovered. The detective inspector was technically supposed to have conducted this interview immediately after the connection between the crime and Andy's book had been made, but he had held off to give the Baker Street gang some time to adjust after that shock.

Just as Lestrade raised his hand to knock, John opened the door, starting a little as he saw the other man standing there.

"This about the case?" John asked.

"Yeah," Lestrade replied. He held up the case file and notebook in his hand to indicate that this was official police business he was conducting.

"Do I need to be here?"

"No, I don't think so."

John sighed with relief. "Good. Well then, I'm off out."

"Date with Mary?"

"Yeah." John allowed himself a small smile. "She's great. I cancelled on her yesterday to chase some lead with Sherlock, so I've told her that I'd make it up to her tonight."

Lestrade grinned back. "Good for you." He gave John a friendly pat on the arm. The two men had become rather close as of late. Spending so much time together, watching over Sherlock, and floating in the wake of his deductive brilliance: things like this really brought people together.

"Andy," John called into the flat. "I think Lestrade wants to ask you some questions about the case." He turned back to the DI. "Well, see you later then, Greg."

"Bye," Lestrade mumbled as John walked out the door.

Andy came out of Sherlock's room, followed immediately by the consulting detective himself. The two had spent hours cooped up in there, reviewing what they knew about the case so far. While John had refused to allow the murder to pull him away from his other engagements and responsibilities, Sherlock and Andy seemed perfectly content with allowing it to consume them for the time being.

"Morning, Lestrade," Sherlock greeted in an unusual display of politeness.

"Er…right," Lestrade replied slowly, a bit unsettled by Sherlock's civility.

"Do you want some tea?" Andy asked courteously, playing the part of hostess despite the fact that this wasn't actually her flat.

"No thanks," Lestrade muttered.

"I'll take some," Sherlock said. There was a brief moment of panic as he recalled his fight with her a few days prior. Her words from that particular argument floated back to him, pulled up from the dregs of his hard-drive.

_"The least you could do is ask nicely for some goddamn tea...If you won't say please, if you refuse to stop being so demanding, I guess I'll just go…and next time you want someone else to do it for you, be polite about it."_

"Please," he added hurriedly, attempting to sound as undemanding as possible. The last thing he needed was for Andy to truly decide that his friendship wasn't worth the trouble. He found that he wasn't too keen on that idea, and so, if making sure she didn't leave like she almost had required a little bit of politeness, he would sacrifice his dignity and use the "magic word" from now on.

Andy grinned and gently rubbed his arm as she passed to show her appreciation of his effort.

John had long since gone, and Lestrade was there—alone—with Sherlock as Andy bustled about in the kitchen. The DI had the distinct impression that he'd just witnessed a private moment between Sherlock and Andy, and it made him feel awkward. He had come there to discuss the case, not to observe the progress in their relationship.

When Andy walked back toward the living room a few minutes later, she sat down in John's chair while Sherlock claimed his own. Lestrade was left to seat himself on the sofa, staring between Andy and Sherlock, wondering how to best begin what he had to say. "Well, I know we've already sort of gone over this," he said, "but I just need to confirm that you had nothing to do with this crime, Andy."

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, his eyes narrowing.

Andy held up her hand to stop him from speaking. "I got this," she muttered to him. Turning back to the DI, she replied, "No, I had absolutely nothing to do with the murder. My book was, evidently, used as inspiration for the killer, but I had no personal role in any of this."

"Right, good." Lestrade nodded, pleased. He believed her. She didn't seem like the type to go about assisting murderers or anything like that. Besides, she had Sherlock Holmes speaking up in her defense—it was very clear that she was completely innocent. "Standard procedure—I had to ask. Anyway, I guess what I need to know is whether or not there are any fans that might've done this to get your attention. We've spoken to a psychologist about this case, and he seemed to be under the impression that this could be some fan's way of trying to show their devotion or something like that."

Andy pondered this for a moment. "There were two pretty creepy ones back in the States who wrote to me constantly. My old agent kept all of the letters, I think. I can call her and ask her to e-mail me some copies of them."

"That would help," Lestrade replied.

"See if she has any pictures of them as well," Sherlock added. Upon receiving the confused looks from his companions, he rolled his eyes and explained, "I'll be able to tell whether or not they should be considered suspects if I see photographs."

"Right," Andy said. She pulled out her phone and sent a text to her old agent, Elise Jones.

_Elise, it's Cassandra Parker. I've got to talk to you ASAP. Call me as soon as you can._

"She'll be in touch," Andy informed the two men.

Lestrade nodded. "Brilliant. Now…there's the matter of your…er, protection. As there's been no direct threat made against you, we won't offer a police protective detail or anything like that. But I would recommend that you not go out alone or get yourself into any particularly dangerous situations until this whole thing is cleared up."

Andy smiled politely to show that she understood. "Of course, Detective Inspector. I promise I'll be safe." Sherlock thought he could detect a bit of tension in her response, but he refrained from commenting on it immediately.

Lestrade made a few more inquiries before announcing that he'd gathered all the information he needed. He soon bid Andy and Sherlock goodbye and walked out the door.

There was a moment of silence that followed the exit of the DI. That seemed to be a habit among Andy and Sherlock—whenever someone left them alone, they always took their time digesting what had just happened, analyzing what was going on; not speaking but thinking.

Finally, Sherlock interrupted the quiet. "What was that about?"

"What do you mean?"

" 'Of course, Detective Inspector. I promise I'll be safe,' " he quoted, attempting to mimic the terse tone she had taken when she spoke those words.

Andy shrugged, averting her eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about. There wasn't anything weird about me saying that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. She was being far too difficult about all of this. "Fine. Do you want me to deduce it? Because, I assure you, I can. Let's start with the fact that you referred to him as 'Detective Inspector.' You've been calling him Lestrade since the moment you two met, so switching to his formal title must be some indication of disapproval of what he said. He had just finished explaining to you which safety measures to take for the present time, so the only logical assumption is that you resent those measures that he's established. Why is that? It doesn't make sense."

"It's not the safety measures I resent," Andy grumbled, crossing her arms. "It's the fact that everyone seems to think that I _need _them."

The pieces clicked into place in Sherlock's mind. "Oh…you think that this shows that people don't trust you to handle the situation properly. You think those rules were set up to contain you rather than to keep the killer out."

"It's just that…" She sighed. "It's just that everyone seems to think that I'm going to run off and do something dangerous with this killer out there."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. While he wasn't exactly convinced that she would go running off to do something like this, he had also become fairly well-acquainted with her over the past month, and he was able to definitively say that she wasn't adverse to danger in the slightest.

"John especially doesn't trust me with stuff like this," Andy continued, staring at the floor. "He still thinks of me as how I used to be. But I've changed since then. I swear I have. I'm not as thrill-seeking or daring as I used to be."

She didn't say anything else, so Sherlock prompted, "What changed then? Why aren't you like that anymore?"

"Do you know why I like to write, Sherlock?" she asked, and he wasn't sure if she had even heard his questions. "It's because it's an adventure that I control. Every story I write is a new chance to face fear and danger and to come out alive, with no risk to me at all. I can _become _the characters and _feel _what they feel and _experience _what they experience. It's a good substitute for actual danger, especially for someone like me who tends to seek out stuff that leads to trouble. One day, I decided that writing about it wasn't enough. I wanted to _actually _feel and experience what my characters did. I teamed up with this writer in New York named Richard Castle. He's got this deal where the police allow him to tag along on their investigations. Anyway, he invited me to join him on this one case involving an obsessive serial killer. Well, the killer, naturally, chose me as his next target. He sent me a creepy little note, and I showed it to the cops, but I downplayed it. I told them it was probably a sick prank, and they almost believed me. They believed me enough to not force protective custody on me or anything like that. Then, one night when I got home, I walked into my apartment to find a man—the killer—sitting in my living room, holding a knife. He almost killed me then. Luckily, Castle and I were supposed to have dinner to talk over the case, and he came round right as things got really ugly. I almost died because I was stupid. I didn't understand just how serious stuff like this actually is. I'm used to dealing with these situations as I sit in front of a computer screen, not in real life. From then on, I've not been too eager to make another idiotic mistake like that again. I'm not an idiot like that anymore. I'm not suicidal. I understand what's going on. I _get _that this is serious, and I'm not going to take it lightly. That's why those 'safety measures' bug the hell out of me. Everyone is under the impression that I require these _rules _to keep me in check. They don't understand that I'm grown up, that I can take care of myself and that I won't screw up."

Sherlock pondered this for a bit, paying special attention to the last few sentences. He knew the "they" that Andy had been referring to throughout her speech had really just meant John. Andy was upset that John didn't trust her with this stuff. She was annoyed that she tried to impress him with how grown up she was, and he refused to believe that she'd ever grown out of her more dangerous and adventurous stage.

"I don't think you're going to do anything stupid," Sherlock offered. He was hoping that this statement would be some comfort to her.

"Thanks," she mumbled.

Another moment of silence ensued.

"Why then," Sherlock began, breaking through the contemplative quiet, "did you choose to come live here? I mean, if you're trying to stay away from that kind of life-threatening stuff, why are you here with me and John? In the past month, you've been in plenty of dangerous situations. I've brought you along on cases, we've chased suspects, there's a killer who's using your books as inspiration—that's not exactly the epitome of safety."

Andy smiled a bit, holding his gaze. "But it's different here. There's a balance of sorts. I've got the thrill of adventure without much of the risk. Even if we do have some pretty not-safe stuff going on, I'm personally not in any real danger. I've got your brilliance and John's protectiveness keeping me out of harm's way. I trust you guys not to let me get into any real trouble."

Sherlock nodded, unsure how to respond to that. This was an awfully big display of trust, and he wasn't sure if he could actually live up to it. Sure, there was the extreme likelihood that he would deduce the killer's identity before things got too serious, but there was always the possibility that something could go awry, and he wasn't willing to have Andy's misplaced trust in him be what did her in.

Before he could pursue these thoughts any further, Sherlock's phone chimed twice, indicating two new text messages. The first merely consisted of an address, while the second read:

_There's been another murder. Definitely the same guy who killed that clown. Bring Andy down here. He's written her a note. GL_

"What is it?" Andy asked, noticing the odd expression that had come over Sherlock's face.

"This case has just gotten much more serious," he replied distantly. "It seems that our killer is attempting to make contact with you."


	12. Chapter 12

**Who has two thumbs and has a concussion? This kid. That joke is much less effective via the Internet, but it's true. I've got a concussion, and I'm supposed to be "resting my brain," which probably doesn't involve writing fanfiction or doing homework, but that hasn't stopped me from doing either of those things. Anyway, my thoughts are literally all over the place right now. Trouble concentrating will do that to you. Okay, well, I think this chapter turned out alright. Al's Turtle gave me a rough idea and provided inspiration for this, as for with basically every other chapter in this story. Thank you for that!**

**Reviews would be lovely. On with the show!**

Sherlock texted John as he and Andy caught a cab to the crime scene.

_There's been another murder. Come at once. SH_

The reply was almost immediate: _No. You know perfectly well that this is my romantic day with Mary. We've only just finished lunch, and we've got loads more to do before the day ends. I'm not leaving. Use Andy instead. JW_

_Andy's here, but it's not the same without my blogger. SH_

_You'll get through it, I'm sure. JW_

_Could be dangerous. SH_

_Not going to work. JW_

Sherlock glared down at his mobile as if it had offended him. John had always come before when offered a bit of danger, and Sherlock was put out as he realized that his friend would—for the first time—_not _be joining him for a crime scene. Sure, there had been cases for which John had not been present, but those had all been much less exciting than this current one, and on all of those occasions, John had not been there simply because Sherlock had never asked him along. This marked the first real case that John would not be attending, the first time he'd truly said _no _to Sherlock's demanding texts.

_It's all Mary's fault_, Sherlock thought bitterly, looking out the window. She'd stolen his best friend away from him, and it wasn't fair. Sherlock didn't exactly have a lot of friends to choose from, so the fact that his closest companion had been distracted by some random woman was upsetting.

Sherlock sighed. It wasn't that he hated Mary. In fact, he actually found her to be quite pleasant. She wasn't exceptionally bright, but she also wasn't extremely moronic. She had, so far, been extraordinarily tolerable of Sherlock's more _eccentric _habits and had been utterly supportive of John's assistance in the Work. Overall, she was probably Sherlock's favorite of John's girlfriends so far.

_Still_, Sherlock told himself, _she shouldn't have taken my only friend and assistant away like that._

A thought struck him, and he glanced over at Andy. John _wasn't _his only friend. He now had Andy…he had _options_. Sherlock had never had the luxury of choosing which friend to spend time with, as he had never had too many to begin with, but now that Andy had expressed her interest in pursuing this friendship with him, she could step in whenever John was out having an actual life.

Sherlock didn't waste any more time despairing over the loss of his most trusted colleague and assistant. No, now he had another one who would—he knew—eagerly step up to fill that role. Andy didn't need to be _just _a person of interest or a witness in the case. She could also take a more _active_ role. She could assist him and compliment him and make sure he stayed fed—she could fill in for John.

_Brilliant_, Sherlock thought with a smile. _First there was the skull, and then John replaced the skull. And now Andy…well, she won't be _replacing_ John, but she'll still be able to take over his position for now._

"Sherlock?" Andy said hesitantly, pulling the man from his musings.

"Hmm?"

"Is there any reason you've been staring at me for the past few minutes?"

"Oh." He averted his gaze. He hadn't realized that his stare had been so intense. "Uh, no, not really."

Andy cocked her head to the side and gave him a curious look. She eventually shrugged, brushing off the whole ordeal. "Okay then."

~oOo~

The crime scene was a dodgy alleyway which had been formed into some sort of shrine. There were painted-on Scripture passages inscribed on the walls and white roses scattered across the ground. The centerpiece of this all was the victim. She was a young woman with blonde hair. Her eyes were shut and her features were schooled into a serene expression. She was laid gently below a written-on portion of the wall, dressed in a white, flowing dress.

Above her body, in some sort of red spray paint, a message had been written:

_Your soul I have freed  
__To the universe again.  
__Your soul I have freed  
__From this world of pain._

_You are the chosen ones  
__And you shall be released.  
__You will join Father and Son  
__For their mighty feast._

_Be free, angels of the night.  
__Be free from this world of fright._

_Go before the Lord, make him see.  
__As you ascend, remember me._

Andy made a face as she read those words. This particular crime had been lifted from her third novel. The killer in that book had been a mentally unstable man who had believed that if he released enough "angels" from their mortal prisons, he would be granted a place in Heaven. Andy had visited a psychiatric hospital once in her younger years, and she had observed a man who had actually believed a philosophy very similar to that of the killer's in the book. That nut-job had been the inspiration for the novel, and now Andy regretted ever deciding to write about him. These types of murders—the religious, psychotic ones—always ended up being the most gruesome and the eeriest in her mind, and she felt bad that her decision to document such a crime eventually led to someone being truly murdered in such a fashion.

"At first we weren't sure if it was the same killer," Lestrade said to Andy and Sherlock. "But then I read that message up there, and I recognized it from one of your books."

"Who is she?" Sherlock asked, gesturing down toward the victim.

"Her name's Molly Jensen," Lestrade replied. "She's twenty-one, unemployed. She's got a flat a few miles away from here, and we're thinking that's probably why she was targeted. The killer saw her, noticed that she fit the description from Andy's novel, and killed her."

Sherlock nodded absently, crouching down beside the body. "Well, it's definitely the same guy. And I'm fairly certain that he is, in fact, a man."

"How do you know that?" Andy asked. "At the last scene you said it could be either a weak man or a tough woman."

"Well," Sherlock replied. "I now know that it is a man we're after. Look at the writing up there." He gestured to the spray-painted poem. "The writing style is distinctly male. And the victim smells faintly of aftershave. I'm pretty sure women don't typically wear aftershave." He rolled the body over so that the victim's face was pressed into the unforgiving concrete of the alley's floor. "And take a look at the way this dress was done up."

The outfit had clearly been put on the victim postmortem, and the buttons that travelled up the back of the gown weren't quite matched up. Somewhere along the middle, the killer had skipped a button, and the whole pattern was thrown off.

"It's obvious that the murderer wasn't very talented with putting on dresses," Sherlock continued. "He couldn't even get the buttons right. Yes, he's most definitely a man."

"Good work, Sherlock," Andy commented with a warm smile. She really loved watching Sherlock deduce like that.

He grinned briefly in reply before turning to Lestrade. "You said that the killer wrote a note for Andy. Where is it?"

"Ah, yes," Lestrade mumbled, reaching into his pocket to pull out a piece of paper enveloped in an evidence bag. "Here you go."

He handed it to Sherlock, who leaned toward Andy so that she could read it as well.

_Dear Cassandra—or should I say Andy,_

_(I know how much you loathe using your full name.)_

_I hope you've been enjoying my work so far. I've done this for you, to show you the extent of my dedication to you. Since the moment I first read _Child's Play_, I knew that we were made for each other. Your writing speaks to me in ways that no one else's has. You possess a talent that all the world should know, and it's an incredible injustice that you're outsold by trash like Castle or Patterson. I do hope you've been pleased with my work so far. I'm showing everyone what mastery you're capable of creating by bringing your works to life. I know you'll appreciate all the effort I've put into this. Someday, when I've completed the task I've set out to do, I'll come to you, and we'll be together._

_Until then, _

_Your biggest fan._

Andy shuddered as she read through that, huddling closer to Sherlock. He reached out and grasped her hand, feeling oddly sickened by the sentiment that the killer expressed in that letter. He hated the idea that this disgusting murderer thought that killing was the way to win Andy's affection, and he wanted to protect her from the twisted fan.

A few feet away, among the curious crowd gathered behind the yellow tape, Andy's biggest fan watched the scene with anger. How dare the police confiscate that letter, only allowing her to peruse its contents once? How dare that tall man take her hand, when he was undoubtedly undeserving to even so much as be in her presence?

_This is a conspiracy_, he decided. _They are conspiring to keep us apart._

"Don't fear, Andy, darling," he mumbled quietly. "They can't stop the power of this attraction. I'll prove my dedication to you, and then you'll become so desperate to see me that even the entirety of Scotland Yard won't be able to stop us from being together."

* * *

**Please remember to review and give any suggestions, criticism, or comments you have. I'd love to hear them all!**


	13. Chapter 13

Andy and Sherlock rode back to Baker Street in silence. Andy glanced out the window. The afternoon had come to a close, and now the dimness of evening was beginning to blanket the city. Soon, the sun would go down completely and the moon would reign in the sky.

Andy shivered slightly at the thought of being alone at night. The killer's chilling words were still drifting through her mind, and she was not keen on being left by herself when her "biggest fan" was out to steal her attention.

The two exited the cab and entered 221B, still without exchanging a word. It was clear that Sherlock's mind was completely enveloped by the case, and Andy didn't want to interrupt his deductive process.

Hours passed, and that familiar pattern of silence descended upon them once more. John texted at some point to inform Sherlock that he would be staying at Mary's for the night. Since the consulting detective hadn't even heard his phone chime, Andy took the liberty of replying to John's message.

As the thick darkness of the evening became even more evident, Andy began to glance anxiously at the door. She didn't want to go back to her flat, all alone, especially on such a creepy night as this. As she glanced out the window, she could see the full moon barely peeking out from behind a curtain of ghostly clouds.

_It looks like the setting for a horror movie_, she thought nervously. _This is the part where my character—stupidly—goes down to 221C alone, and the killer ends up popping out of my closet or something_.

"Sherlock," she said, interrupting her imaginings before they got too out of control.

"Hmm?" he murmured distractedly. He was sitting on the sofa, staring at the case file laid out on the coffee table. He didn't glance up at first.

"Well, I…um, I was wondering if I could spend the night up here," she muttered, feeling slightly embarrassed by expressing such cowardice in front of him.

His gaze slowly met hers. He tilted his head to the side, one side of his mouth barely flickering upward. "I would've thought you'd enjoy the _danger _of staying alone."

Andy shook her head determinedly. "No way. I enjoy the danger of visiting crime scenes or chasing suspects across the roofs of London, but _this _is way too intense for me. I'd prefer to avoid danger like this…it's gotten me into trouble before, and I'm not going to let that happen again."

"So, essentially, you're scared," Sherlock stated.

Andy crossed her arms and glared petulantly down at him. "I am _not_."

He half-expected her to stomp her foot. It was actually quite endearing to see her acting so stubborn with something like this. "You can admit it," he replied with a teasing smirk. "Don't worry. I understand if you're afraid."

She huffed in frustration. "I've already told you. I'm not _afraid_. I just don't want to take any unnecessary risks."

He laughed a bit and turned his eyes back toward the case file. "You can stay the night if you'd like."

"Thanks," she mumbled in reply. She curled up in John's armchair, watching Sherlock work.

Hours later, when Andy had long since begun the battle against sleep, she and Sherlock were still roughly in those same positions. Andy's eyelids were drooping dangerously, however hard she tried to resist the pull of unconsciousness. She liked watching Sherlock work like this, and she was unwilling to allow sleep to take her away from the interesting scene before her.

He could tell that she was exhausted, and he honestly wished she would just close her eyes already. It wouldn't do to have her extremely tired in the morning.

"Sherlock," she said softly, allowing her eyelids to flutter shut momentarily.

"Yes?"

"If I were scared—which I'm not—well, I'd be glad to be up here with you."

He smiled lightly. "And why is that?"

"'Cause you're safe," she murmured, quickly losing the war with sleepiness.

"Sergeant Donovan would tell you the opposite. She says I'm more dangerous than half the killers we chase."

Andy shook her head, her eyes now completely closed. "She's wrong. You're not a danger. You protect people. I know I'll be safe as long as I'm up here with you…"

With those last mumbled words, Andy finally drifted off.

Sherlock stared at her sleeping form in wonder. She thought of him as _safe_. No one ever considered him to be the epitome of security. Not even John would say that being with Sherlock made him feel _safe_. Sherlock found that he was unwilling to prove Andy wrong. He'd just have to ensure her security as long as he was around. It wouldn't do for him to be reckless with her when she'd just bestowed upon him this extra responsibility. She trusted him to prevent harm from coming to her, and he found that he was readily taking on that task.

He had started out as a cold, heartless sociopath, willing to do anything to get the Work done. Then John had come along with his limp and his jumpers and his friendship, and Sherlock's icy heart had thawed out a bit. John had, in some way, fundamentally altered Sherlock's ability to connect with other people, and it seemed that this fundamental change was manifesting itself now through Sherlock's interactions with Andy. She was his friend, and he was going to protect her.

_She feels _safe _with me,_ he mused. He smiled softly before returning his attention to the case. He'd solve it, and then she really would be safe, and everything would work out fine.


	14. Chapter 14

**I should apologize for the incredible delay in getting this chapter up. I was preoccupied by school and my introduction to Tumblr. And then I wrote this chapter, wasn't pleased with it, and rewrote it about three times. Here is the final result.**

On the day immediately following the discovery of the second victim, Andy was startled out of her writing by a rather loud banging. With a sigh, she saved her work and walked over to the door. When she opened it, she found Sherlock waiting there, his hand raised as if to knock again.

"Must you knock quite so loudly?" she murmured, stepping aside to let him in.

He ignored her question as he casually walked into her sitting room. "I see you've been writing," he commented, gesturing to the open laptop resting on the coffee table.

Andy raised an eyebrow. "Yes, and as interesting as my career as an author is, I'm sure that's not what brought you over here this fine morning. So, Sherlock, what is it?"

He tried not to be offended by her automatic presumption that he required some ulterior motive to visit her. "Er, right. Well, I need you to take me to see your new agent. I want to look through your recent fan mail to see if any one of your fans could be the murderer."

"I take it my old agent sent over the names of the two creepy ones who would write to me back in the States."

Sherlock nodded. "Their names were Douglas Richards and Nicholas Haskell. Richards is in prison back in California—something about violating a restraining order—but as of yet NSY has been unable to locate Haskell. That's why I'd really like to take a look at your more recent fan letters. I'll be able to tell if any are from him, and hopefully that will be able to help me determine his location or involvement."

"Let's get going then." Andy grabbed her coat and the two of them headed out the door.

During the cab ride over, Andy shot out a text to her agent to alert her to their imminent arrival.

"Where's John?" she asked, breaking the stretch of silence that had descended upon them.

"At home," Sherlock replied, his eyes glued to the screen of his phone.

Andy furrowed her brow. "I would've thought he'd have wanted to come along."

Sherlock shrugged, still not looking away from his mobile. "He insisted on sitting this one out."

In truth, John had done this as a rather unsubtle attempt at playing matchmaker. He'd observed Sherlock and Andy with some interest, and, up to that point, he hadn't found the need to take a more active role in the progression of their relationship. However, now that he realized just how _well _they were getting on and how easily they interacted, he understood that she was truly Sherlock's best chance at ever having a relationship that was even slightly more than platonic. So John had taken it upon himself to shove the two of them together so forcefully that they could not ignore the possibility of more-than-friendship.

~oOo~

Andy's current agent was named Rebecca Townsend. She was an attractive woman who was nearing forty, and she was notoriously good at her job. Andy appreciated her professional skills, but she still didn't particularly enjoy the other woman's company.

"Andy, welcome," Rebecca cooed as Andy and Sherlock stepped into her office. Townsend ushered them onto the cozy sofa that was stretched out against one side of the room.

Andy took her seat and felt the need to make introductions. "Sherlock, this is Rebecca Townsend, my agent. Rebecca, this is Sherlock Holmes."

Townsend shot him a rather blatantly flirtatious look, one that Andy wasn't too fond of. "Oh, I know all about you, Mr. Holmes."

Andy, for some reason, was quite pleased when Sherlock obviously ignored Townsend's attempt at flirting.

"Andy, darling, I'm so delighted you brought your _muse_ over for this little visit," Townsend continued, seating herself in an armchair opposite the sofa. She leaned forward, staring intently at Sherlock with twinkling eyes. "I can see why you chose him." She raked her eyes over Sherlock's form, and he shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny

Sherlock looked uncharacteristically confused. "Muse? Chose me? What are you talking about?" He glanced over at Andy for clarification.

Andy's cheeks were slightly flushed, and she refused to meet his eye. Instead, she glared over at Townsend and hissed, "Rebecca, I told you not to bring this up."

The agent waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, it's nothing to be embarrassed about. I'm sure Sherlock provides an abundance of inspiration. Although, in the recent drafts you've sent over, I have to admit that you've really not done justice to just how _good _he looks."

Sherlock slowly began to piece it all together. But, well, he wasn't quite sure he was correct in his deductions. "You're using my cases—you're using _me_ as inspiration for your newest novel?" he murmured, silently willing Andy to glance in his direction.

She finally did look over at him, sheepish and embarrassed. She couldn't tell if he was upset about all of this or if he would be fine with it. Andy knew that Sherlock, an especially private man, probably would have forbid her from using him as inspiration in any way, which is why she had been so reluctant to talk with him about it. If she published the manuscript she was working on, she would essentially be exposing some of Sherlock's personality, some of his methods, some of who he _was_, to the general public, and she wasn't so sure that he would be alright with that. But was he angry? Was he flattered? It was too hard to tell with that unreadable, mask of a face that he had adopted.

"Sherlock," she finally said tentatively. "I was going to talk with you about this, but I didn't think you'd approve, and writing about you—or, well, a character based off you—was the most creative thing I'd done in awhile. So I just sort of went with it, and then I found that I really enjoyed this new character, but I wasn't exactly sure if you'd approve of me using you as inspiration. So, yeah, sorry I didn't tell you about this sooner, I guess."

Sherlock didn't really know how he was supposed to take this. John had done something similar to this with his blog, in that he would write about Sherlock and the cases and the adventure, but for Sherlock to have actually _inspired _something else, a story, a creative process—well, that felt much more flattering than anything else. "I…It's fine. I'm honored, I suppose, that you'd choose to write about me."

Andy smiled softly at him, and he found himself returning the expression.

Townsend cleared her throat loudly, intent on alerting them to her presence once more. "Right, well, you wanted to see the recent fan mail, isn't that right?" Without waiting for an answer, she shouted, "Kevin! Steven! Get in here."

Within moments, the office door opened and two young men walked in. Sherlock only spared them a brief glance, as he had much more important things on his mind at the moment, but he did notice how incredibly different they looked. One was tall and obviously worked out quite a bit. He wore tight-fitting clothes as if he was proud of his overly muscular physique and wished to show it off. Sherlock thought it was just distasteful. The other man that entered was paler and smaller. He obviously spent much of his time indoors and was much less vain than his associate. Sherlock didn't like him either, though, because the man had a sort of furtiveness around the eyes that Sherlock didn't trust.

"Andy, you've already met Kevin and Steven, haven't you?" Townsend asked.

Andy nodded and gave a polite smile to both men.

Townsend turned to Sherlock and said, "Sherlock Holmes, meet Kevin Sinclair"—she gestured to the physically fit one—"and this is Steven Carter"—indicating the smaller man. "They're my assistants. Steven, why don't you help me find those fan letters? Kevin, stay here and keep our guests company."

Both men nodded, but Steven looked a bit put out at having to accompany his boss. Kevin, however, was positively beaming, but when his smile turned hungry as his eyes feel upon Andy, Sherlock knew that he and this man would _not _be getting along.

"It's nice to see you again, Andy," Kevin said, perching himself on the armrest right beside her.

Sherlock frowned; that position was far too intimate, too close.

Andy offered the man a polite smile. "Yes, nice to see you, too, Kevin." She shifted a bit uncomfortably in her seat, subtly moving away from where Kevin had seated himself. "How's everything been going here?"

Sherlock glared at her. Why was she being so polite when Kevin was looking at her like that? Was she encouraging his advances? Certainly not. It clearly made her uncomfortable. So why, then, did she feel obligated to continue with these pleasantries?

Kevin shrugged, attempting to look cool and indifferent. "Pretty busy, I guess," he replied, picking at his fingernails. "There's been a whole lot of fan mail about _you _recently." He looked down at Andy and grinned, but his eyes still had that same ravenous look in them. "You've caused quite a buzz around here."

Andy laughed slightly, though Sherlock could tell the sound was strained. "Yes, well…"

Kevin very blatantly raked his eyes over her frame, and Sherlock was decidedly not fond of the way he kept looking at her. In an attempt to stave off the other man's unwanted advances, Sherlock shifted closer to Andy and placed his hand over hers where it rested on the couch.

Andy glanced up, a bit surprised. Then, slowly, a small smile tugged up at her lips. A genuine smile, not the kind that she had been giving to Kevin. Sherlock, for some reason, felt immensely proud of that.

Kevin didn't seem able to take a hint. He leaned toward Andy and reached out a hand, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. She flinched a bit but didn't reprimand him for the contact. More politeness? Sherlock hated that she was giving this creep so much leniency. He glared viciously at Kevin. This was not okay.

Before Sherlock got the chance to tell Kevin off, Townsend and Steven reentered, holding a box filled with letters.

"Here's the recent fan mail you requested," Townsend said as the box was dropped beside Sherlock's feet.

Sherlock let go of Andy's hand, pushing his previous anger away in favor of staring down at all those letters.

"We've got quite a bit of work to do," he murmured.

* * *

**Remember to review! **


	15. Chapter 15

**At the suggestion of Alohilani Hudson, I've been considering changing the name of this story to Different Types of Broken. Let me know what you think of the potential title change.**

**Also, I'd like to give a little shout-out to honeyiwearacrown, who messaged me a little bit ago. Thank you for your support!**

**This chapter is a much shorter than the others, so sorry about that. Anyway, please do let me know what you think when you've finished reading.**

The cab ride back from Townsend's office was tense to say the least. Sherlock scarcely spoke a word, and Andy eventually grew tired of his icy treatment.

"What's gotten you into a mood?" she asked, trying to keep the hint of bitterness out of her voice.

Sherlock didn't look at her, but rather he continued staring resolutely out the window.

"Are you upset that I used you as inspiration for my writing?" she pushed, now a bit nervous. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about that. I just assumed that you wouldn't approve."

Sherlock spared her a brief glance. "No, that's not it," he mumbled. And that wasn't it. He had been flattered and a bit proud at having been chosen as her "muse." It was nice, really, and he wasn't upset about that in the least. "It's nothing."

"It's clearly not 'nothing,' Sherlock. Just tell me what's gotten you so worked up."

Sherlock didn't reply. In fact, he resolutely ignored her for the rest of the ride. By the time they arrived at Baker Street, Andy was completely fed up with the silent treatment. Before Sherlock could retreat up the steps to his own flat, Andy reached out and grabbed his wrist. She wasn't actually strong enough to hold him there, but the contact startled him enough that he stopped and turned around.

"What do you want?" he said harshly.

"Tell me why you're so upset," she demanded. She gestured to the stack of fan mail in his hand. "You got the fan letters that you wanted—the ones from Nicholas Haskell. Shouldn't that make you happy?"

Sherlock tugged at his wrist. "Yes, I'm positively chuffed," he muttered sarcastically. "Or I _would _be if I wasn't so distracted by Kevin's excessive desire to flirt with you."

Andy let out a small noise of disbelief. "_That's _what's gotten you so worked up? The fact that Kevin flirted with me?" She dropped his wrist. "Why would that possibly worry you so much?"

Sherlock scrunched his nose up in disdain. "It didn't _worry_ me. I just didn't appreciate the way he eyed you like you were a piece of meat. It's distasteful."

Andy sighed. "Yes, he was creepy, and yes, his flirting was _way _out of line, but that's no reason for you to get all upset about it."

Sherlock glared at her sharply. "If you think it's so creepy and out of line, why weren't you stopping him? God, you were practically _encouraging_ him."

"I was not," she snapped back, taking a step toward him. She was small physically, but her anger and indignation made her seem like a far more intimidating presence than her tiny frame should have allowed. "I was being polite, Sherlock. You might want to try it sometime."

Sherlock scoffed. "That was not politeness. That was allowing him to assault you with his eyes."

Andy's glare was dangerous and very, very angry. "How dare you suggest that I actually _encouraged _that creep? Just because you don't have a polite bone in your body doesn't mean that everyone else has to adhere to your policy of rude indifference!"

"You're unbelievable!" he cried, throwing his hands up in a frustrated move.

"_I'm _unbelievable?" Andy asked incredulously. "_You're _the one being completely ridiculous here. You've blown this entire thing _way _out of proportion, and you're blaming me for something that _wasn't my fault_! What's gotten into you?"

Sherlock glowered at her. "Nothing's gotten into me," he bit out. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some work to do." With that, he stomped up the stairs to his flat, slamming to door shut behind him.

~oOo~

Andy was all set to remain angry with Sherlock for the next few days. However, on the morning following their argument, she walked into her kitchen to find a steaming mug of tea waiting for her. A note, scribbled down in Sherlock's slanted writing, was placed just under it.

_I'm sorry_, it read.

Andy smiled slightly and sipped the tea, pinning the note to her fridge.


	16. Chapter 16

Kevin was practically shaking in fear as he was forced to sit down at his desk. He was at Townsend's office, and there was a gun pointed to his head.

"Stop this," he pleaded. "You don't have to do this."

His attacker—the fan—merely laughed. He shoved a pen into Kevin's hand and placed a piece of paper in front of him.

"Why me?" Kevin asked in a small, hopeless voice.

The fan loved seeing him so broken down like this, stripped of his cocky persona. "Because I saw the way you were acting around Andy. Dear, sweet Andy. She was uncomfortable, and making her uncomfortable isn't okay." He pressed the gun against Kevin's temple, grinning manically. "Besides, I don't like seeing other men throw themselves at what's mine."

Kevin bit his lip, tears threatening to spill over. He'd never been so scared in his life. "She…she's not yours, though."

The fan's smile faltered. "Shut up," he snapped after a moment. "Of course she is. She loves me. Or at least she will, when she sees just how devoted I am to her." He took a breath before continuing, his grin returning. "Now, I want you to write _exactly _what I tell you."

The fan dictated his message, and Kevin obediently—if a little shakily—managed to write it down on the piece of paper he had been presented with. The fan smiled down at the note, pleased with the final result.

"Perfect," he murmured. "Now, for your crimes against Ms. Parker, I'm afraid I'm going to have to punish you."

"Please no," Kevin begged, crying openly now. "Please! I'll do anything. Anyth—"

He was cut off by a gunshot, and with that, his body slumped forward onto the desk.

The fan grinned. "For you, Andy," he murmured as he left the scene.


End file.
